


The Devil's Smile Plays Upon His Lips

by Rev (Ballyhoo)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Advena Avis, Blood, Crash Landing, Death, Exorcism, Gen, Mature rating for the violence, Nightmares, Novel Spoilers, One Shot, Past Torture, The Church, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9983303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballyhoo/pseuds/Rev
Summary: A wild west chase, a café encounter, an airplane ride, religious veneration, and multiple death experiences - and that's only the half of it.  A day in the immortal life of Elmer C. Albatross, taking place over the course of centuries.No matter what life throws his way, he remains himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic for the longest time was known to those I discussed it with (and to my file system) simply as "The Elmer Fic."
> 
> According to Word, the earliest version of it was created on March 29, 2016 - which means I've been working on and off this fic for nearly eleven months now. It sort of feels unreal to finally be sharing it with you all.
> 
> Please note that the spelling letters and grammar mistakes in the opening letter are intentional. Each chronological segment is separated with a bolded, centered header.

  **August 1722**

 **Saturday, 9:30 AM**  

 _To my illustrious Profe_ _s_ _sor,_

_Good morn! I hope this Letter finds you_ _S_ _miling, and if not, I hope that it brings a_ _S_ _mile to your face. Well fir_ _s_ _t I suppose I_ _s_ _hould hope this Letter finds you at all, given that after I fini_ _s_ _h writing it I shall_ _secret_ _it in the_ _s_ _addelbag of the Courier who has been induleging him_ _s_ _elf in the Inn whear I am currently lodging as of one hour ago. I do not know where he is off to, but I have faith that this Letter will reech you somehow. Would you believe me if I told you that I_ _s_ _end most of my Correspondince the_ s _e days by to_ _ss_ _ing it to the Wind? Just two munths ago I wrote to Nile and flung my letter out to the_ _S_ _ea, and a few days later I found his ruply waiting for me in my coat pokit. I have been able to_ _s_ _ave quite a bit of Coin this way, which is Good because I am in con_ _s_ _tent need of it these days._

_Oh, not neccessarilly for my_ s _elf_ _– you know me, profes_ _s_ _or. I can eke out a living on just about Anything and I am Very Good at bartring. But there is not enough Money circulaiting the Markets here, unlike back home, so the_ _s_ _e days I am occupyed with lending a helping hand to the needy. But at the moment I am as Poor as a Church Mouse—I wrote earlier that I am lodging in an Inn but the innkeeper would be_ _supprised to know that! Well if he should discover me it will be no trubble for I shall offer my services by way of apologee._

 _I have tryed to keep in touch with old friends and accuaintances back Home, with limited_ _succe_ _s. Just last year I wrote to that poet Jean but I have yet to hear from him. Could you visit his residunse in my stead and pay your Respects, so to speak? I do not like the idea of him still having dificulty_ _S_ _miling freely. Is he still putting out new works? Information is hard to come by here on Italian playwrights that herald from no-name cities, even the Famous ones – don’t tell him that, tho! Make sure to Compliment him on whatever new work he’s nurturing at the moment, he’ll like that. I digre_ _ss_ _, tho -- I have been keeping_ _s_ _undry Correspondunse with my friend Carla the bodyguard and my friend her Lady, but Speran is awfully hard to get a hold of. I’d appreshiate it if you could go and prod him with a_ _s_ _tik for me._

 _I am running out of Paper so I_ _will keep the rest breif. How is my spelling? I was going to write to you in Italian since that is our mutuel Tongue but it occured to me some years ago I should learn to Write in my Native language. They never taught me how. Spanish and Italian I know like the back of my hand. Victor taught me the Fundamentals on the Advena Avis but the rest I have had to learn on my own over the last seviral years. Looking back on what I have written so far it does not sound like me all too much does it? I’ve been copying letters from a lawyer accuaintance of mine so I will blame his influince here._

 _I said I would be breef but look what has happened. One page left to my name. Next time I will be more succint as my friend the lawyer keeps Urging me to be. If you would like I can write to our mutuel friends here on the Continent and ask after them so as to put your mind at eise, tho I do not know whear most of them are. I doubt that our privisy will be comprimised. And in return tell me that you are in good Spirits and good Cheer if that is the Truth and what the News is on Our City. I like to stay informed._

_Your effectionate pupil,_

_Elmer Ensorcelled_

_PS Plea_ s _e write back as_ _s_ _oon as p_ _oss_ _ible it is Cold and I am in need of Tinder_

 _PPS That was a jest of course. Tinder is Plentifull. It is paper I am lacking. These enclo_ _sd last words are written on the back of a page I tor out of the local church lejer._

_PPPS What happened to my old Schoolmates? I cannot reach any of them_

 

 

**May 1975**

**Saturday, 10:30 AM**

_A zoo is a good place for people-watching,_ Elmer thought. He strolled past the sea lions, meandered through the reptile house, paused to take photos of a tawny owl with markings that _almost_ looked like stars on its head in the menagerie, and finally plopped down on a bench by the ring-tailed lemurs exhibit to unwrap the ham-and-cheese baguette he’d made that morning. Of course, a zoo was good for animal-watching too – and it wasn’t that Elmer didn’t _like_ animals: it was just that he’d always been more preoccupied with humans.

 Elmer had decided on a whim that morning – as he decided most things these days – to hop on the subway and visit the Bronx Zoo for a day of people-watching. He’d arrived at the zoo just as it was opening its gates so as to get an early start. After all, people go to zoos expecting that they will smile, so it seemed as good a way to spend his day as any.

He had always been quick to notice people’s smiles and what they stood for (which meant he was exceptionally good at picking smiles off the street) but some days he wanted easy pickings. 

So far, the day had been shaping up to be a good one—already the path was filling up with people, to the point of being crowded. It seemed like half of New York had seen fit to take advantage of the warm spring weather and the cloudless blue sky: mostly families and gaggles of teenagers out for a lark, though there were a fair amount of elderly couples and ambitious college students wandering the lanes as well. Elmer was prepared to enjoy himself, when –

Well, a predilection for smiles meant that Elmer took notice when someone was in clear pain, and as soon as he heard the panicked cries of a young girl lost in the buzz of the surrounding chatter he was on his feet and pushing his way into the crowd – _‘scuse me, sorry, coming through!_ – and there in the middle of the path was a little girl in bell-bottom jeans and a polka-dotted tunic shirt.

Elmer crouched down to look her in the eye, casually ignoring the swell of people moving around them. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks and she rubbed her eyes with her fists, having not noticed Elmer’s presence.

“Hey there. Are you lost?” Elmer spoke loudly but gently: loud enough so that she could hear him over the din but hopefully gently enough that she wouldn’t spook. He was smiling, of course, and he thought his smile probably looked kindly.

Her hands stilled, and she inched her head upward to look at him. She sniffed, nodded, and Elmer nodded too, because what else would she be?

“Let me guess, you came here with your parents, right?”

She gave him another tiny nod.

“Well, you don’t need to cry anymore, because I’ll help you find them again! Okay? So chin up and give us a smile—” someone bumped into his back and he wobbled. He flashed her another grin. “—But maybe we’d better get out of this crowd first, yeah?”

The girl tilted her head, considering. Elmer watched her patiently as she weighed her options, shifting her weight from one leg to another. Scrunching up her nose, she nodded again; he was pleased to see her eyes were dry. Beaming, Elmer straightened and parted the red sea once more, careful so that the growing throng of amblers wouldn’t accidentally trample the girl.

When they finally made it back to the bench, they found find it occupied by a family of four. Well, no matter (to quote a friend). Elmer had been planning on moving to higher ground anyway. A foot or so behind the bench was a stout stone wall, and Elmer looked down at the girl as they came to a stop.

“I bet we’ll definitely be able to see your parents from up there!” he suggested, bright and cheerful. She looked at the wall and gave him a skeptical look. Elmer laughed and hoisted her up onto the wall, lifting her up by her waist. After she settled he clambered up after her and sat down on her right side, practically right next to the lemur cage. One of the black and white lemurs peered at him with curious golden eyes, clinging to the chain links with small hands. He grinned at it, and took off the instant camera hanging around his neck. 

“Mind taking a picture of us?” Elmer asked the girl, handing her the camera. “He reminds me of a friend.” She fumbled with the strap and Elmer smiled widely as the lemur grabbed a hold of his hair, the camera flash going off a second later. When she returned the camera he removed the photo, waved it in the air, and pocketed the photo without so much as glancing at it.

“Brilliant! Thanks a bunch,” he said. “My name’s Elmer, by the way. What’s your name?" 

She hesitated.

“Did your parents tell you not to talk to strangers? That’s really smart advice! You should always be careful around strangers. Some people aren’t very nice people, and your parents only want the best for you, I’m sure. That said, some strangers are pretty great people, you know? Of course, it’s hard to tell if someone’s a nice person or a good person or a bad person sometimes. But I just want to help you find your parents so you can smile again. Although, if you want me to go away, I’ll go away, no problem! But only if you smile for me, that is. I wouldn’t want to leave you unhappy.”

The girl sat there, mouth agape. He _had_ said a lot. Maybe it was too much for her to process. She scratched her cheek.

“Are you a nice—are you a _good_ person?” she asked, finally.

“Not really, no,” he admitted. He knew that telling the truth wouldn’t always make people smile. Sometimes it guaranteed the opposite, but honesty had always come easy for him (as had lying, but that was neither here nor there) and anyway, kids never liked it when adults lied to them. Besides, they had a better ability to tell when adults were lying to them then some might realize. Elmer would know.

“But I told you, I don’t like seeing people unhappy. I just want to get you back with your parents. That’s all. I know I said you should be careful around strangers, so you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to. Though I’d appreciate it if you did.”

The girl kicked her legs against the wall, and looked him up and down warily. “My name’s Heather Brown,” she said, and added, “I’m seven.”

“Heather? That’s a pretty name.” She brightened a bit at his reply. Elmer turned and shielded his eyes with his hand from the sun, scanning the crowd. “Oh, by the way, what do your parents look like? I’m taller than you, so I can keep an eye out for them.”

Heather pursed her lips and leaned backwards. “Um…um…my mom is wearing a jean jacket, and daddy’s wearing a red baseball cap. I think.”

“Great! Bright colors really stand out in a crowd. We’ll find them in no time at all. Well, maybe it’ll take a little while. I bet they’re looking all over the zoo for you this very moment. It’s pretty warm, though. Do you want something cold to drink? There’s a vendor around here who sells milkshakes.”

She seemed on the brink of a smile when he mentioned the word milkshake. Elmer could tell she’d been worrying after her parents this entire time, by the way she clenched her fists and the way her head jerked upward every time she heard a voice calling out in the crowd. You could tell a lot of things about a person by watching how they moved. Elmer would know. He’d had almost three centuries of practice.

“…Strawberry!”

Elmer chuckled and pulled out his wallet, hopping down to the ground to approach the vendor setting up shop a few yards away. Three minutes later and he was back on the wall, handing Heather her strawberry milkshake before tasting his own (chocolate, on a whim). He studied her face, fiddling with his straw.

“It’s good!” She was smiling. It was a small smile, but it was progress, and Elmer held his milkshake out in anticipation.

“I propose a toast! A toast to milkshakes!”

Heather looked at him in delighted shock before breaking out into giggles. She clinked her milkshake with his, and Elmer felt a vague sense of warmth somewhere deep inside him.

They continued chatting about meaningless things over their straws. Elmer kept an eye on the crowd below them, on the gapeseeds gawking at the capuchin monkeys and the children giggling as they ducked around their parents’ legs. A flash of red caught Elmer’s eye right as he was noisily inhaling the last gobs of chocolate from the bottom of his glass, which he set down beside him.

“You’re in luck! I think I see them,” he said, getting to his feet. Standing on the wall, he cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered _over here!_ in the direction of what turned out to be a man in a red baseball cap, followed closely by a woman in a jean jacket weaving in and out through the masses. He continued shouting at them, waving both arms up in the air to attract as much attention as possible. And he did; the family of four on the bench looked up to stare at him in dull irritation. More importantly, so did the man and woman, who looked up warily. They were close enough now that he could see the woman’s eyebrows rise in shock.

As the two made their way through the crowd, Elmer crouched and clumsily hopped off the wall once more to greet them. He looked up to Heather (preparing to help her down) and stopped when her expression crumpled. A vague sense of disappointment sent his shoulders sagging – a whole hour wasted. But then Heather swiped an arm across her face and smiled a great big smile through her tears.  

“ _Mom_ ,” she cried. “ _Daddy_!”

Elmer laughed, and helped her down just as her parents emerged from the throng. Her mother swept her up into a hug, murmuring apologies into her hair. Elmer turned to Heather’s father, and stuck out his hand.

“Hi!” He kept his smile as disarming as possible. Let them know that he wasn’t a threat. “The name’s Elmer. You must be Heather’s parents, right? Your daughter was lost, so I decided to wait with her until you came back.”

The father’s crinkled brow smoothed, and he shook Elmer’s proffered hand. “Thank you for keeping her safe,” he said, stoutly. The mother offered a choked “thank you so much,” over Heather’s head, followed by “I was so worried, sweetheart.” Her husband rubbed his neck. “How can we ever repay you?”

“Seeing her smile after finding you two again is more than enough for me,” Elmer chuckled. After a moment the father laughed too, clearly relieved to have his daughter back safe and sound.

Heather waved at him as the family of three walked away, her other hand firmly entrenched in her mother’s own. Elmer waved back until they were out of sight, and then turned back toward the stone wall. People-watching, as Elmer well knew, is easier when one has a vantage point.

 

 

 

**October 1991**

**Saturday, 11:30 AM**

Elmer took out twenty dollars, pressed the bill into the man’s calloused hand and stepped back, returning his wallet to his pocket. 

The man, hunched over with scoliosis and huddled in front of a black iron fence, cast him a wary glance with his good eye. “What do you want,” he croaked, after several moments of silence. “Drugs? Booze?”

“I don’t look that young, do I?” Elmer protested good-naturedly. And he really didn’t. He was sure the man knew it too. “No, no, I’m not one of those teenyboppers looking to get a quick fix. It’s all yours.”

The man snorted in disbelief. Elmer didn’t move, standing in front of him with arms akimbo and that unchanging smile frozen on his face. The man coughed, uncomfortable. “…Why?”

It was the question Elmer had been waiting for. “See, I was walking along and there you were, all frowns and generally miserable. I couldn’t just walk by without doing something; your face would have stuck with me and bothered me for the rest of the week! So I decided to _make_ you smile. You wouldn’t mind smiling for me, would you?” He crouched down and folded his arms over his knees as he talked—he was _sure_ he had asked politely enough.

The man gave him a baleful look from under his cap. “I’m not some street monkey,” he rasped, “who performs for your amusement.”

“Aw, c’mon! I bet you have a smile somewhere within your heart, and I want to see it.” Elmer insisted upon this point. He considered offering the man more money, but decided against it. This man wasn’t like the bored guards and receptionists Elmer had entreated with in the past. Of course he wasn’t.

The man’s face twisted up. Elmer couldn’t tell if he was perplexed or offended. “It’s not…that simple,” he said, the words slow and weighted. “Or easy.”

Elmer supposed that it probably wasn’t and sighed, straightening. “All right then,” he replied. “That settles it. I’ll walk down this street every day until I see your smile. It’s a promise.”

The man scrubbed a hand over his face. “But _why_?” The question was strained, and Elmer’s smile didn’t waver when he gave his answer:

“Because it’ll please me. That’s all there is to it.”

He departed soon after, whistling a cheerful tune to cut through the fog.

 

 

 

**April 1932**

**Saturday, 12:30 PM**

“Hey you, don’t I know you from somewhere? I do, don’t I? Oh, yeah!” 

The redhead sitting at the café table on the other side of the flowerboxes snapped his fingers as he talked through a mouth full of food. Sitting across from him was a young woman with chopped blonde hair. Elmer stopped and turned, curious.

“The train! You were one of the passengers, right? Yeah, that’s it! Well isn’t that something, running into you here of all places, I mean, what are the chances? Actually they’re pretty high, considering I’m the center of the universe and all. Anyway you really shouldn’t go into the conductor’s cabin without permission. It’s just bad manners, is all I’m saying.”

His companion scoffed into her water. If she’d been relaxed before she certainly wasn’t now, peering at Elmer with alert eyes over the rim of her glass.

Elmer circled around the flowerboxes. The redhead hadn’t stopped talking, leaning back in his chair as his slice of pizza drooped in his hand.

“The same goes for the other guy you were with, what’s-his-face. Black hair, black suit, bleeding from a stab wound – anyway if he’s still alive you tell him for me, won’t you? That is, if I don’t meet him first.”

“Black Suit?” asked the woman, a peculiar look on her face.

“Yeah, Black sui—wait, you aren’t implying he was one of those _Leh-mur-ay_ guys, are you? I mean, black suits are pretty standard fare all things considered, but then again he was wearing some sort of uniform and that’s a level of classiness you don’t see every day. Say, if that guy was a _Leh-mur_ …”

The man’s eyes grew round and wide as he turned to look Elmer full in the face.

“…What does that make _you_?”

Elmer’s grin turned sheepish, and he slid uninvited into the spare chair at the table. He was interested in what the redhead’s smile looked like, and his companion’s more so. Sticking around at the very least would guarantee an entertaining afternoon.

“Me? I was just a passenger, no more and no less. I just happened to meet Upham – the Lemur who was stabbed – in the freight hold. Don’t worry about him, though! He didn’t actually hurt anyone. I think he was just in over his head.”

“Oh really? Well, that’s a relief. Guess I won’t have to kill him if I see him someday. Assuming he’s still alive, that is.” The man's grin was sharp and full of teeth for a second, and then he lit up. “Maybe I’ll ask him if he knows Huey Laforet.”

“Huey? Huey Laforet?” Elmer’s interest was piqued. “I–”

The other man grabbed Elmer’s shoulders and shook him violently. “Whoah, hold on there! You know Huey Laforet? Ain’t that something! You hear that, Rachel, this guy knows Chané’s father! Isn’t that swell; hey, I’d really appreciate it if you could introduce me to him. If things go my way – and they _will_ – he’s gonna be my father-in-law and I want to make a good impression the sooner the better.”

He swallowed and let go of Elmer to take another humungous bite out of his wilting pizza. Rachel sighed, and pushed the napkin holder closer to him. The redhead either didn’t get the hint or was too excited to care about the tomato sauce staining the corner of his lip as he chewed, awaiting Elmer’s response.

“You’ve really got to work on your table manners,” Rachel chided, before sliding the pizza tray over to Elmer. “Want one?”

Elmer paused for a second to admire her aplomb. Going with the flow in his opinion was always a good course of action, and he took a slice and a napkin graciously.

“Sorry, but I haven’t seen Huey in ages.”

The redhead slumped.

“I’m sure you’ll have a chance to meet him though, once he gets out of Alcatraz.”

Rachel stiffened. “How did you kn—?” She abruptly cut herself off with an audible click of her jaw.

“That’s what I’ve heard from the rumors,” Elmer said breezily, taking the opportunity to try out the pizza. The cheese stuck to the roof of his mouth. “That’s all I know, though. Promise. Truthfully, I haven’t been keeping tabs on what Huey’s doing or where he is. He and I are going to be around forever, so what’s the rush? We’re bound to run into each other someday.”

At that, the redhead cocked his head, a certain shrewdness in his gaze. “Forever? You wouldn’t happen to be one of those immortals, eh? If you are, you’re the second _Pussyfoot_ passenger I’ve met who’s turned out to be an immortal.”

“I would! It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Elmer shrugged while Rachel stared him down as if he were some odd curio in an antique shop. She didn’t seem shocked at the flippant use of the word _immortal_ , but Elmer didn’t care enough to dwell on why. He turned back to the redhead, cutting him off before he could barrel on. “Who was the first immortal, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The redhead opened his mouth wide, and the tomato sauce at the corner of his lips dribbled down his chin. “Let’s see…I think his name was Czeslaw Meyer—if I’ve got the pronunciation right that is. Say, do you mind…?”

Elmer cocked his head to the side, and then grasped the man’s meaning. “Not at all! Be my guest.” He braced himself, stuck out his hand - and the redhead jammed his fork into Elmer’s palm. Elmer hummed as the other man wiggled the fork from side to side, causing blood to well up around the prongs and spill over his skin.

“So I’m guessing you know Czes then? I have to say, I wasn’t too happy what with the little man askin’ that Russo fellow to kill the passengers and all. And I was even _less_ happy when I learned that he had stowed explosives on the train to sell to the Runoratas so that _they_ could go after my foster brothers, the Gandors – you know the Gandor family? Real small, but good people considering the mafia business – anyway I couldn’t let that slide on _my_ watch so I decided to teach him a lesson, if you know what I mean. It’s all in the past now, of course, but I don’t think he cares for me. You talk with him sometimes dontcha Rachel, how’s he doing these days?”

The man pushed the fork deeper into Elmer’s palm. Elmer winced at the pain, fairly certain that the tines were now pressing against his metacarpals.

“ _Cares_ for—? After what you did? Fat chance.” A spasm of some internal conflict crossed Rachel’s face, and she balled her hands into fists. She looked quickly at Elmer, to his palm, to his face again, and then turned guiltily away.

“I suppose not all bygones are bygones.” The redhead frowned, shrugged, and slid the fork up and out of Elmer’s palm, leaning forward to watch the blood bubble and rescind. “Hey, thanks a ton. Really, I mean it. Just had to satiate my professional curiosity—I’m sure you understand,” said the redhead with a sanguine grin. “Oh that’s right – I never introduced myself formally, did I? The name’s Felix Walken. Professional assassin, and occasional bodyguard. It’s a pleasure.”

He took Elmer’s healed hand and shook it vigorously. Elmer chuckled, matching his energy. “I think I remember your name differently, but if calling you Felix will make you smile, then Felix it is!”

Felix grinned widely, his smile flaring across his face and staying put. “See, this guy gets it, Rachel.” There was a hint of reproach in his tone, as his eyes slid over to the woman in question. “Why can’t Firo and the other guys come around as easily as Elmer here? Huh? I ask you.”

Elmer helped himself to another slice of the pizza as Rachel shrugged, her gaze moving past the two of them and off into the distance. In the next moment, her eyes widened and a smile graced her features.

“Looks like Elean’s here.”

Elmer twisted around in his seat to see a tall black man wearing a Chinese Tang suit standing behind the flowerboxes. The man raised his hand in greeting, before stepping forward to maneuver between the café tables in their direction.

“Hi there,” the man said, though whether he was greeting Rachel specifically or all of them at once was anyone’s guess. He brushed his knuckles against Rachel’s shoulder. “You ready to go? We’ve got an hour before Garda – uh, well, you know the story.” He fumbled over his words, flashing a wary glance at Elmer through his tinted glasses.

Rachel looked over at Felix, who dismissed her with one grandiose swoop of his hand.

“Don’t worry about it. I told you it’s my treat, didn’t I? You better go along with your pal there and make sure everything’s daisies with that Gardastance guy.” Elean coughed uncomfortably at the name, but Felix prattled on, oblivious. “I oughta get going myself. Promised my gal I’d go help out her pals with some no-good thugs giving them a hard time. You might know ‘em, since a few of them were also on the _Pussyfoot_. My gal and her buddies, that is.”

Felix stretched as he talked, and pulled a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. He used his plate to pin it to the table. “What say we do this again sometime, the four of us? There’s this great little sandwich place nearby I think you’d really dig, Rachel. You like sandwiches, Elmer? I’ll buy you one my treat, as thanks for not calling me Claire. I think we just might be able to get along swell.”

He downed his water and sprang to his feet, sauntering away with a “see you around,” and, “say hi to Czes for me.” Elean shuddered a little at his departure.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that guy.”

Rachel snorted at that before ambling over to Felix’s abandoned chair, which she pushed under the table. Elean looked Elmer up and down with appraising eyes.

“You’re…”

“Elmer. Elmer C. Albatross. But you can call me El, or El-El, or Elross if you’d li— oh wait a mo’, your name is Elean, isn’t it?”

“Elean Duga, but —”

“Well, what do you know? An El for an El! What do you make of that, Rachel? You’ve got two Els ripe for the picking. El and El-El at your service, ey? Or what about El-El-El and El-El? No, I guess it’d be simpler if you just call me Elross and call _him_ El-El instead.”

Rachel’s expression was a queer mixture of bewilderment and delight and she managed to mouth _El-El?_ at Elean before clapping a hand to her mouth and hunching over the flowerboxes, poorly muffling her laughter. Elean stood and gaped at the both of them.

“Who—what—who— _what is going on?_ ”

Rachel straightened, took one look at Elean’s face and burst into wheezing laughter once more, holding out her hand palm-forward in his direction. Elmer laughed too, making sure to laugh until his stomach hurt. After a good minute, Rachel finally pulled herself together and cleared her throat.

“Come on, _El-El_. Let’s go find Nicholas and Carol before one of them gets ahead of themselves.”

Elean’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded in relief. The two started walking in the direction opposite of where Felix had gone, and Elmer tagged along behind them, his interest still burning bright in their affairs.

As the giddy elation of the past few minutes faded so too did Elean’s good-humored disposition, judging from his frown and somewhat wistful sigh.

Rachel nudged Elean’s arm. “What’s the matter?”

He let out a heavier sigh and managed to look even more desolate than before. “It’s nothing.”

She eyed him skeptically, and he grimaced. “I don’t want to bring the mood down like I always do. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Rachel did not hesitate. “You won’t bring the mood down,” she assured him. “And even if you did I wouldn’t care. I want to know what’s on your mind.”

“Well…”

Elean rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced upward at the sky as if seeking penance from his God. “I’ve been…thinking about quitting.”

From the near-unnoticeable pause in Rachel’s steps, Elmer was sure that she would object with a loud _What?!_ or _You can’t!_. Much to his continued interest, she did not exclaim out loud in disbelief but instead let out a controlled breath.

“Why do you want to quit?”

Elean leaned in close, crooking his back a little so the much shorter Rachel could hear him. In hushed tones, he asked, “You’ve been filled in on the Genoard business from earlier this year, haven’t you?”

“Ye-es…” Rachel replied. Elmer picked up his pace a little, making sure to keep in earshot. Neither of them had sent a pointed glance his way (yet), and he’d be the first to admit that he constantly eavesdropped on others. Shamelessly.

“It’s just, I, I, all I seem to find myself thinking of late is how I am nothing but trouble. A miserable man bringing the most miserable of news to those desperate for _good_ news. Oh, you should have seen her _face_ , Rachel. I’ll never forget her face, truly I will not. Miss Eve – she just, she _crumpled_ , and surely I must have been the most wretched soul in that very moment. Aah…well, to tell you the truth, I’d been thinking about quitting before then. The Genoard Affair simply sealed the deal. I made a good bit of money off that business too.”

Elean shook his head, and Elmer had edged close enough that he could clearly see the furrows along his temple, and the tremble in his fists.

“I really am one hell of a bastard.”

He fell silent, and he hung his head low as he walked. Still, Rachel said nothing; she merely closed the gap between her and Elean to the point where her arm brushed against his.

Elmer figured this was as good a time as any to open his mouth.

“Have you tried smiling?”

Both Elean and Rachel stopped in their tracks. Rachel was the first to turn and stare at Elmer, her eyes narrowed in alarm. Elean seemed more cautious than guarded, but Elmer didn’t stop to try and work out their innermost emotions.

“It feels great to smile! So I’ve been told, at any rate. I’m sure that if _you_ smile, you’ll feel better in no time. And if you smile, maybe your clients will smile too. You see? At least _try_ to smile, won’t you? It takes fewer muscles, you know! Of course a fake smile is no good, but I’m sure you’ll get somewhere if you just try.”

The corners of Elean’s mouth twitched, but not upwards. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve tried. I can’t. …Not when I’m like _this_.” He let out a long, resigned sigh. “It feels like I’m always like _this_.”

Elmer flexed his left hand. “Th—”

One quelling glare from Rachel censured him before he could even finish his word. She faced forward and Elean instinctively followed her lead. Though their backs were once again facing Elmer, he made sure he was close enough that he could hear their conversation.

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling the way you do,” Rachel began, her tone far gentler than Elmer had been expecting. “It happens. Sure, I might be out of the office most of the time, but I’ve known you long enough to know that sometimes…you’re just going to think the worst of yourself and what you’re doing.”

She resumed walking as she talked, and Elmer and Elean followed at a brisk pace. There was a schedule to keep to, after all.

“But you know, Elean…”

Was that a hint of a smile in her voice? Elmer inched so close to her that he was practically biting at her heels.

“…I think…well, I think that you’ve done a lot more good than you’re giving yourself credit for. You’ve given people as much good news as you’ve given them bad, and as for the bad news…sometimes, bad news is better than no news at all. So your client cries. So they scream. Maybe they _do_ think that you’re some ‘harbinger of misfortune.’ But after a while, they’ll be relieved that at least you could tell them something at all.”

Elean looked down at her as they walked. Elmer wished that he could see the man’s expression.

“It must be so hard, what you do.” Rachel was quieter now, but there was a certain conviction in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t want to tell you what to do or how to think or feel or – or whatever. Still, sometimes it’s good to seek advice from a friend.”

She slipped her left arm under Elean’s right one, and hooked it so that they were walking arm in arm. Her next words were so soft that had Elmer not been breathing down her neck he would not have been able to hear them.

“…Thank you for telling me.”

Elmer waited, but Elean did not reply. When Rachel didn’t continue, he decided to slip around her right flank so that he was in the lead. Walking backwards down the sidewalk, he jerked his hand up into the air and waved at them, despite the fact that he was only a few feet away from the pair.

“Hiya! Remember me?”

Rachel stared at him blankly before snorting and covering her face with her free hand.

“You give Vino a run for his money.”

Elmer chuckled, before folding his arms in a no-nonsense manner. Mock-glaring at Elean, he said, “So! You feel better after that pep talk?”

Elean looked away. “Uh…I…”

“Nononono, that’s no good. Clearly you’re not all _that_ happy, otherwise you would have said so immediately. This isn’t any good at all. I thought that was a pretty great speech just now—never would have been able to come up with it myself. Tell me, what _should_ she have said that would have worked?”

“Don’t.” Elean sounded testy for the first time that afternoon, his left hand shoved deep into his pocket. “Don’t do that. You can’t just say something like that. Rachel’s advice was perfectly sound. Things don’t happen ‘just like that.’”

“True,” Elmer mused. “I once thought that if I could transmute enough gold and spread it to the farthest ends of the earth, I could make the entire world happy. ‘Just like that.’ ‘Course, back then I was completely ignorant about economics. Took Huey a while to set that straight.

“Now, _Begg_ has always been of the mind that he can develop a drug which will give humans _perpetual_ happiness...anyway, I didn’t _really_ think you were going to say everything’s top notch now – lots of people don’t. I’ve been looking forward to a certain smile for a couple centuries now, and have yet to see it. So it may not look it, but I can be a patient man.”

He snickered. “I’d really rather not have to be patient, though. Still, maybe the wait just makes the smile all that more enjoyable.”

Elean blinked rapidly. “Whoah, wait a second. Just a _minute_ – you didn’t refer to Begg _Garott_ just now, did you?”

Elmer cocked his head, opened his mouth to reply and concurrently realized that there was no ground beneath his right foot.

_“Whoargh?”_

Off balance, Elmer toppled backwards and off the curb – but instead of hitting the street, he fell further downwards into a pothole that had inconveniently gouged out a good portion of the road.

He landed on his back and winced. His head knocked into the surface a moment later, and he grunted a little but made no other sound. Rachel and Elean peered at him in concern from above, and a little rubbernecking child poked his head over to get a good look a moment later.

When Elmer saw him, he made a show of writhing around, dramatically clutching at his side.

“Ouch! I say, ouch, I hurt all over, oooh the pain, someone get a doctor I think I’m dying ooo-er….”

The child puffed his cheeks out and tightened his lips against a laugh.

“—Won’t someone help me, I’ve fallen down and I really really can’t get up. In fact, I’m done for. Leave me to die in peace.” He flung an arm over his brow and waited, glancing at Rachel with his uncovered eye. 

Rachel got the hint. The words she spoke next were deliberately loud and pointed.

“…You do realize that the hole is only a foot deep, don’t you?”

The pothole was indeed only a foot deep. With the obvious now out in the open, the child burst into peals of laughter.

“What? Well, well! So it is.” Elmer got to his feet and brushed the dirt off of his jacket sleeves and trousers. He patted himself all over.

“Hm. It appears that I may not actually be dying after all. Whew! That’s a relief. I can’t even begin to tell you how much dying can hurt. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The remark drew a sharp breath from Rachel and a flinch from Elean, but the boy didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“I fell out of a tree once and hurt my arm but _I_ didn’t cry,” the boy bragged. “You’re a wimp!”

“Wow, you’re really brave! I wish _I_ could be as brave as you.”

The boy swelled with pride at Elmer’s praise. Out of the corner of his eye, Elmer saw Elean take out a pocket watch from his trouser pocket. Looking back at the boy, Elmer acted quickly.

“Looks like we have to go – you see, we’re actors and late for rehearsal. I’m playing a monster. A terrible, scary monster that eats bad little boys for dessert!”

The boy folded his arms, waiting for Elmer to impress him after such a statement.  

Elmer screwed his face up into a _gookie_ a la Harpo Marx, and raised his arms up into the air with an utterly fake-sounding groan. The boy giggled in spite of himself, and finally ran away when Elean shot him a pleading look.

“C’mon, we gotta go,” Elean said to Rachel. “We’re going to be late for sure.”

Elmer – his face still scrunched up in a _gookie_ – turned to face them, tilting his head hopefully. Rachel immediately turned around to hide her sniggers.

“No. No you can’t come along.” Elean’s voice was flat. “You could get into trouble.”

“Aw, please?”

Elean closed his eyes, rocked back on his heels, and exhaled deeply through his nose.

“Tell him he can’t come along, Rachel.”

Rachel studied Elmer thoughtfully, and then shrugged. “If he _does_ get in the way, we can always send him off then.”

Elean spluttered. “You aren’t seriously suggesting—?”

Something mischievous glinted in Rachel’s eye. “I bet he has a _lot_ of information that we’d be interested in buying. Who knows when we’ll get this chance again? Keep in mind that the longer we stand around debating this the later we’re going to be.”

Elean checked his watch again, groaned, and immediately took off down the sidewalk. Rachel offered Elmer a smile, and Elmer clapped his hands once in victory before they both started after Elean.

Yes, today was shaping up to be a _very_ interesting one indeed.

 

 

 

**????**

_look at you look at you our blessed god our sacrificial god O how unto your screams we shall manifest our misfortunes, O dear beloved child we love you we Love you we shall sing your praises as you scream for us for our sins Praise be Praise be_

he can’t breathe

_so happy that you were chosen so happy that from my womb our god was born_

some aphotic _hell_ he’s in, he can’t breathe, the air is stifling, there are no ropes around his hands but he can’t…no, he _won’t_ move

_smile my boy for you are our savior our hope our god who shoulders the burdens of sinners are you not special are you not godly Ha!Ha!Ha!Ha! what a good dear good good face what smooth supple pale thin skin what wondrous agony he possesses a marvelous voice for screaming what holy tears he weeps_

smiles. There are smiles in the darkness, gleaming smiles and long bloodstained fingers, reaching out and curling into fists, weaving and dissolving into the inky viscous murk, smiles everywhere, there is a flash of silver – the glinting silver of a curved scythe; the _shnk_ as it rises into the air and a whistle as it falls, hulking and remorseless and He opens His blessed eyes and

and Elmer jerked up from the sheets and tumbled off the thin mattress, his head knocking into the sharp corner of the nightstand as he hit the floor. He groggily staggered to his feet, and only managed to walk two steps before tripping over some hard object; he stumbled into the sink basin and leaned on it for support. A small mirror hung on the wall and his gaze fell upon his reflection and he wore Their smile and he instinctively recoiled, lurching backwards and thumping onto the floorboards yet again.

He let out a deep breath.

“Whew,” he yawned. “I’ve really got to be more careful about putting my stuff away, huh?”

There was a knock at the door, which opened a second later. The landlady of the boarding house that he was temporarily rooming in peered at him through the crack, clutching a lit candlestick in her wizened hand.

“Sorry about that! I didn’t wake you, did I?” Elmer sheepishly kneaded the back of his head as he carefully got to his feet. “Fell out of bed, I’m afraid. G’head and laugh at me if you want.”

Much to his dismay, the woman did not laugh. She shook her head disapprovingly instead, and shut the door behind her.

Elmer’s world plunged into darkness once more.

 

 

 

**July 1840**

**Saturday, 1:30 PM**  

 “Whoa, whoa! Good girl. You’ve earned yourself a reward, if I do say so myself.” 

Elmer dismounted and patted Maribel on her flank before tethering her to the rickety wooden fence outside the Desert Rose. He’d won Maribel – a chestnut saddlebred – in a game of poker two weeks ago, and wasn’t he lucky? A man could go a lot of places these days on horseback. Maribel whinnied and craned her neck forward to drink from the water trough. 

 _Well now._ Elmer rubbed his hands, and approached the halfway ajar door. Noting the boot scraper outside the doorframe, he stopped at the limen to obligingly scrape the mud and clay off the soles of his boots. If the barkeep had gone to the trouble of procuring a boot scraper at all, it was clear he must have some sort of stance on hygiene and Elmer wasn’t about to make him unhappy by tracking dirt on his floor.

Still, the Desert Rose wasn’t exactly the sort of saloon one would expect to have _standards_. It was a hastily constructed facsimile of a shack, existing just beyond the outskirts of a fledgling town some distance away. Isolated enough that the majority of its patrons were mostly cowboys in-between jobs, but close enough to the town that there were a small number of shadier folks who frequented the establishment.

Elmer opened the door, pulled off his coonskin cap, and took stock of the inside. The interior was equally as frowsy as the exterior – the bar a simple long plank resting atop some barrels with men sat on stools and crates around crude tables. A fleecer ran a game of three-card-Monte along the left wall, and five men played poker alongside the wall opposite, headed by a burly beast of a man wearing a hat studded with sheriff’s badges. But Elmer had come here for a different purpose, and when his gaze finally lit on a man huddled in the corner with his back to the wall he stretched his grin wide in anticipation.

The patron’s head tilted downwards, and a grimy wide-brimmed hat obscured his face. He kept his black hair tied back with a dark blue ribbon, and he wore a long black rifleman coat over his clothes despite the summer heat.

Elmer raised a hand. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The man looked up from the liquor he was nursing at the greeting. His eyes widened and he stood, kicking his chair back.

“You–!”

The air crackled with interest at the choked cry. Many of the patrons eyed them from where they sat, one or two so brazen as to swivel in their seats. A few clearly spoiled for a fight, hands hovering above their holsters with a minacity that Elmer noted but deliberately left unacknowledged. The man in front of him grimaced and took his seat, touching a finger to the brim of his hat as an apology.

Elmer continued smiling, and the other men retreated back into their own business. Still, the damage was done. The barkeep cleared his throat and rapped a fist on the counter; Elmer reached deep into his pockets, moseyed on up to the bar and opted for heavily diluted firewater, returning to take a seat opposite the man for whom he’d come all this way.

The man clutched at his glass with white knuckles, his arms tucked close to his sides and his back hunched.

“Have you been followed?” The words hissed through gritted teeth, and Elmer watched his eyes flicker from spot to spot, never settling for more than a few seconds.

“Eh? What’s that?”

“Don’t play games. Quates, man, Quates—has he found me? Is he close?”

 _It always comes down to Szilard_. Elmer made an effort to frown, stretching the corners of his lips down grimly. “No. It’s alright, Arma—”

“Don’t call me that!” Armand’s voice was strangled. “Call me Mikal. My middle name. Quates doesn’t know it.”

“He’s not here,” Elmer protested, but nodded anyway. “Ah, I see. You’re worried he’ll catch wind of an Armand hiding out in the middle of Illinois and come hunting for you.”

_“I told you not to call me that!”_

“Sorry, sorry.” Elmer laughed and knocked back the firewater, which burned the back of his throat. “And he _isn’t_ here, by the way. I sought you out because I was thinking about you recently. Call it…concern, if you’d like.”

Armand snorted into his drink. “Don’t make me laugh. We were never close.”

“True,” Elmer conceded. “But I _did_ guess that you might have ended up like this. And I was right.”

“Like what?” Armand turned and spat into the nearby spittoon. Elmer was impressed; Armand, proper, well-to-do Armand, was doing everything he could to blend in with the ruffian crowd. Everything he could do not to stand out. Even the patchy black stubble on his jawline as so unlike him that it was all Elmer could do not to blurt out something inane about how much Armand had changed over the course of a century.

“Like a husk. You’re a shell of your former self - anyone can see that. I understand that you’re worried about old man Szilard, but you can’t live your life on the run. I came because I wanted to change your way of life. Start living for yourself. Just forget about Szilard for now, and do what makes you smile!”

Armand shuddered. His shoulders stooped in fear, and a perpetual tremor ran through his hands. Elmer could just make out his eyes under the brim of his hat, sunken and highlighted by the deep bags underneath them. Finally, Armand croaked:

“Talbot is still alive, last I heard. Rowan too, though God knows where he is. But _Fritz_ …” He uttered an anguished sob and covered his face with his hand. The use of Fritz’ forename was enough to give Elmer pause, and after a minute he’d put a face to memory – Fritz was Armand’s cousin, or old friend or something like that. Whatever he was the two were close, and Elmer reached out to pat Armand on the shoulder.

“I haven’t heard from Fritz in three months…!” Armand curled his fingers into a fist. “Tell me, Albatross. Tell me that you know he’s safe.”

Oh, Armand was _not_ going to be happy with his answer. “I can’t, Mikal,” he murmured. “I don’t know where Fritz is. But I promise that I’ll go search for him, and when I do I’ll come find you and assure you of his whereabouts.”

His companion groaned into his sleeve. “Why, why, _why_ were we cursed to have a man like Quates on board the _Advena Avis_? Answer me that. How can I smile knowing that we are fated to spend our lives running from the ego of one solitary man who could not be content with immortality itself? What joy is there to be had when you exist as someone else’s prey?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re being pretty pessimistic aren’t you? You’ve got to change your perspective! It’s not going to be an easy task for Szilard to catch you when the continent is as vast as the Atlantic Ocean. You know, you could always eke out a living in the untamed northern wilderness, make friends with the bears and the caribou and ride out the next century or two until someone sorts things out with Szilard.

“Learn to enjoy life again, Mikal! I know things seem bleak right now; you and I have lost many of our friends and colleagues, and I would never tell you to forget the dead. _I_ haven’t. But there’s no wrong in smiling for your own health, is there? And if you _do_ run off to the Canadian north there’s no shame in _that_ in its own right. Sorry, I keep talking and talking without giving you a chance to get a word in edgewise. Well, I’ll go refill my glass. Think about it while I’m up.”

Armand nodded glassily as Elmer stood, and hunched further still over his glass. Elmer pulled his long brown coat more securely over his shoulders and headed on over to the bar, glass in one hand and coonskin cap in the other.  He asked for a Mule Skinner this time, and as he waited the brigand wearing the badge-studded hat lumbered up to the bar and stood beside him.

“Nice hat,” Elmer said.

The man didn’t smile at the compliment. Elmer took his glass and turned back toward Armand’s table, only to stop when the man clamped one hirsute paw down on his shoulder.

“You’re ‘sposed to offer a feller a drink when he stands ‘aside you,” the man grunted, digging his fingers into Elmer’s flesh.

“Oh? Sorry, I didn’t know. Would you like mine?” Elmer held out the Mule Skinner, but the man knocked it out of his hand and onto the ground. He cracked his knuckles, spitting a gob of chewing tobacco onto the floor. Seconds later, Elmer reeled into the poker table from a hard punch to his jaw. The table collapsed under him; one of the men swore profusely (“you sumbitch! I was winning!”), drew his pistol, and shot at him without hesitation.

A glancing pain streaked the side of Elmer’s head and he rolled off the ruined table, scattering cards and poker chips when he hit the ground. He scrambled to his feet, grinned, and spat out a tooth. Blood oozed down his face, viscous and pungent.

“I can see we’ve got off on the wrong foot—”

Armand cut him off with a vice-like grip on his arm, and high-tailed it out of the saloon with Elmer in tow. The two burst out of the building and into the bright sunlight; Armand darted to a black and white pinto tied to the fence, taking the opportunity to curse Elmer as he struggled with his horse’s reins.

“You _fool_ – getting yourself wounded like that – if word got ‘round of an undying man out in these parts Quates would be on our trail and what then, I ask you? _Damn_ you –”

Elmer slipped the last knot of the tether free right as one of the poker players burst through the door with gun in hand, only to stop and stare as the last rivulets of blood trickled back up Elmer’s face and into his wound. A second later, Elmer’s tooth whizzed past the man’s face.

He mounted his horse and snapped the reins while his tooth resettled into his gum. From inside the saloon, the brigand’s voice rang out forbiddingly:

_“After them, Smith!”_

The man on the porch blinked, recovered, and dashed for his own horse, which shied as he grabbed its reins. Elmer pressed his shins into Maribel’s flank and spurred her into a canter, hurriedly stuffing his coonskin cap into her right saddlebag. Out of the corner of his eye, Armand did the same with his own hat; he glanced up and gave Elmer a _look_ and Elmer cackled before taking off west, patting Maribel on the left side of her neck with one hand. Armand matched Elmer’s pace with his own pinto near Maribel’s right flank. Behind them Smith let loose a string of crudely colorful curses, and a few gunshots zinged over Elmer’s head.

“ _Move_ , Chicanery, _move_ damn youaaaaaagggghhh!”

The strangled cry was a tad distant – Elmer and Armand had already covered a good deal of ground by the time Smith had mounted his horse – but Elmer heard it all the same. He decided to take the risk, twisting around in his seat to see what the matter was.

Smith was clinging onto Chicanery’s neck for dear life, pulling back on the reins with his left hand. Dangerous. Uncontrollable galloping – clearly the man didn’t have all that much experience with horses.

“Don’t pull on the reins!” Elmer shouted. “You’ll only make things worse!”

In response, Smith raised his gun with his other hand and fired off another bullet, which zoomed high above Elmer’s head. Complete miss. Well, of course it was. Firing accurately from a horse was nigh impossible, even for experienced shooters.

Elmer spared a thought for the men back in the Desert Rose, and he hoped that they were smiling now that he was gone. He would have liked to go back and check on them, but a holler from his right distracted him from his daydreaming. To his delight it was Armand, whooping from the back of his pinto. His voice crackled with every cry, but Elmer focused his attention on Armand’s face—his eyes squinting in the wind but alert and _gleaming_ for the first time in goodness knows how long, his lips stretched back in unmistakable joy.

For the first time today, Armand looked _alive_.

Elmer laughed with complete abandon, the wind whipping through his hair and ruffling his coat. Armand whooped again and without warning he pulled ahead of Elmer, moving at a breakneck speed.

Elmer used one hand to raise his red bandanna up and over his mouth and with the other he shortened the reins, shifting forward in his seat. He edged his legs backward and pressed his thighs into Maribel’s flank, soon catching up with Armand and his pinto at a gallop’s pace. Of course, they would have to slow sooner rather than later – a horse simply could not gallop for extended periods of time, much as it would be convenient – but for now all that mattered was staying ahead of Smith and Armand’s smile.

And keeping Smith alive, come to think of it. At some point the man would _have_ to dismount one way or another, but it seemed unlikely that Smith knew how to stop a bolting horse. Bailing could leave the man with serious injuries, and Elmer couldn’t allow Smith’s day to be completely ruined just like that. In the far distance, Elmer could see a blue and white farmhouse on the horizon. Haystacks dotted the surrounding fields, and wasn’t _that_ an idea.

“Oi!” Elmer once again released the reins with one hand, which he waved frantically at Smith on his left side. “Jump off and into one of the hay piles when we reach them! _Jump into the haystacks_!”

Smith’s face was white with fear, but he managed to stop looking terrified for the briefest of seconds so that he could gawp at Elmer’s suggestion.

“I—”

Chicanery snorted and shook his head sharply, causing Smith to yelp and grab the horse’s neck in fright while Chicanery’s hooves pounded against the ground in a mad corybantic tattoo. They were just approaching the outskirts of the fields now, and Elmer sat back in his seat. Maribel slowed ever so slightly back into the canter, and he took the opportunity to shout well-intentioned advice in Smith’s direction.

“Come on, you can do it! Bail as soon as you can!”

But Smith and Chicanery raced past the first and nearest haystack, and the next, and the next. Elmer had no choice but to follow, and so he and Armand moved further into the fields. The farmhouse in the distance was getting closer by the minute, and if Smith planned on bailing he would have to do it soon.

Elmer opened his mouth to shout at Smith again but _there_ he went – the man rose out of his seat, cautiously raising his right foot up and out of its stirrup – and with a yell he threw his weight to the left and plunged into the closest haystack available. Elmer caught his breath – it looked like Smith’s left foot had caught in its stirrup – but a moment later it untangled and his left leg plopped unceremoniously into the loose hay.

Chicanery did not stop for his master, and sped onward towards the farmhouse. Elmer guided Maribel into a trot, and then to a walking pace as they approached the haystack. He called to Smith as he dismounted, gripping Maribel’s reins in one hand.

“You all right?”

Smith’s groan was weak and stifled by the hay, but it was _there_. Elmer chuckled and bent forward, sinking his arm into the hay. When Smith gripped his arm he clasped Smith’s in return and hoisted him up and out of the haystack, hefting him into a sitting position. Smith spat a few hay straws out of his mouth and peered up at Elmer through brown hair that hung limp with sweat in front of his eyes.

“Well…I guess you’ve caught me,” Smith breathed. His shoulders shook with the aftershock of adrenaline, but the fear that glimmered in his eyes was nascent as his gaze flicked behind Elmer to Armand, who had just dismounted his pinto.

“That we have,” Elmer agreed, and he reached upwards to rub Maribel’s heaving neck. He thanked her silently, and promised to reward her as soon as he was able. He neglected to add that it was technically _Smith_ who had failed to catch _them_.

“What…what are you going to do now?”  

Elmer made a show of hemming and hawing, before widening his grin. “I say we’ll let bygones be bygones. No harm’s been done – though should we be expecting your boss and company on the horizon in a minute or two?”

Smith’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets in confusion, and he wet his dust-caked lips with his tongue before looking eastward. Elmer fumbled for his waterskin in Maribel’s saddlebag and upon retrieving it offered it to Smith, who hesitated before accepting it.

“I…don’t know,” Smith said slowly, dabbing a few droplets of water out onto his hand, which he scrubbed over his mouth and jaw. “And I ain’t lying. But I guess the others woulda come after you by now if they was serious.”

He raised the waterskin to his lips but froze as Armand pushed past Elmer (who grabbed the reins of Armand’s pinto before he could wander off) and seized Smith by his collar, causing him to yelp and nearly drop the waterskin onto the ground.

“Tell me. What did you see back in the doorway?” Armand demanded, looming over Smith with the intensity of a greyhound. It was as if the last few minutes of exhilaration had never happened, and Elmer was poised to interfere should things turn south.

“I – I –” The way Smith was stuttering and from the way his pupils shrank, it was very clear to Elmer what exactly Smith saw back in the doorway. “I don’t know _what_ I saw.”

Armand reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, and pulled out a shaving knife. Elmer acted quickly, switching the reins of both their horses to one hand; with the other, he grabbed Armand’s wrist.

“He didn’t see anything, Mikal,” Elmer said, nodding at Smith. “Just a trick of the light, that’s all. In this heat, a man is liable to witness any number of odd things.”

Armand wrenched his arm out from Elmer’s grasp. “I can’t – he has to – if he lives, he’ll tell someone and Quates will _hear_ and then –”

“I won’t tell!” Smith gasped, scrambling backwards into the hay. “I won’t, you have my word. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Armand shook his head, and his hand clenching the knife shifted backwards. Elmer reached out to take his arm again, pull him back, to do _anything_ when a gunshot rang out and two bullets flew across the top of the haystack, sending hay flurrying to the ground.

Elmer shuffled to the right and saw a grey-haired man wearing a plaid shirt tucked into blue jeans marching toward them, carrying a still-smoking shotgun in his hands. A woman wearing a red-checked gingham dress followed behind him, holding a revolver in her right hand and leading Chicanery their way with her left.

The two came to a halt a few feet away from the trio.

“Well now,” the man said, stroking his shotgun with his thumb. “What in tarnation are you three boys doing on my property?”

❖ 

Elmer spooned chilled black bean soup into his mouth, the texture velvet-smooth against his chapped lips.  

“Thank you for the food, ma’am,” mumbled Smith on Elmer’s left side, spreading apple butter over homemade wheat bread before topping it with roasted ham. “It’s real good.” 

“It is, it is!” Elmer enthused, reaching for a square of the cornbread in the middle of the display. To his right, their hostess graced him with a small, satisfied smile from one end of the table.

Armand fiddled with his utensils across the table, eying the revolver lying next to the woman’s plate suspiciously. Elmer supposed it was only fair Armand might be agitated about guns at mealtime and so he peeked at the head of the household, who balanced his own shotgun in his lap and drank hard apple cider from a tall mug. 

“So…are you two worried about nearby brigands or coyotes? You seem pretty set on having those things close to you,” he asked, on Armand’s behalf.

“No-o,” the man drawled into his glass, which he set down a moment later. “Just like keeping ‘em close to us. Guns, that is. They’re _everything_ to us. A way of life, if you will.”

Elmer paused, for there was something in the man’s tone that didn’t quite seem _right_ to him, but before he could puzzle it out Smith perked up on his left side, grainy breadcrumbs scattering to the tablecloth.

“I like guns too,” he blurted through a mouthful of bread, and flushed when all eyes turned to him.

“You do, dear?” The woman leaned forward, her eyes bright. Smith ducked his head at her attention. _Bashful_ , of all things. You could meet all sorts of ruffian folk out in the west, and apparently some of them were _bashful_. Elmer snickered into his cup.

“Yeah. Always have. I’ve even thought about going into gunsmithing. I’d have my own little shop and everything. Call myself Gunsmith Smith and eke out a living in town or something like that. But I don’t know all that much about the business.”

The couple shared a look across the table. Armand raised an eyebrow in Elmer’s direction as the woman laced her fingers together.

“We have a small forge out by the barn. Do a little business repairing our neighbor’s guns now and then. Our eldest son is off in Chicago at the moment, so we’ve been looking for a strong young fellow to take his place while he’s gone. What say we take you under consideration?”

Smith’s knife clattered onto his plate. 

“You mean it? I mean – I – uh –” The initial spasm of excitement that flashed across Smith’s face was quickly smothered, and he looked at Elmer with the eyes of a cornered dog. 

The situation as Elmer saw it was as follows: Smith would be much happier working for this couple than he would be if he returned to his old posse – especially with the added disgrace of having let Elmer escape. The couple needed someone to help them out with the forge and the farm. Win-win. The only issue would be…

“Do you think your old boss and friends would miss you?” Elmer murmured, and Smith pursed his lips. “That they’ll expect you back and come looking for you?”

“The boss’ll probably do what he always does, an’ have me replaced by tomorrow morning. He ain’t hurting for _people_. But if he – well, in the event our paths cross someday, he just might up and kill me for desertion. Call me a coward and a fool for not being able to capture the likes of you.” Smith paled and snatched up his glass, muttering an apology into its rim.

Elmer wasn’t fazed by the unintended put-down, and he made a show of ticking the possibilities off his fingers. “He’ll insult your character and then do away with you, huh? That’s no good at all. Look, if you’re going to break away from your old gang you’ll need to do it on your own terms. And do it _loudly_.”

The way Armand’s mouth tightened at _own terms_ didn’t escape Elmer’s notice, and he winked at Armand over his mug. “What they’re after is me, right? Well, I just might have an idea about that…”

 

Twenty minutes later, Elmer, Armand, and Smith mounted their horses and left the farmhouse behind them. Farmland eventually gave way to untamed vibrant green tallgrass and redolent prairie blooms of purple clover, white quinine, yellow ragwort. Their final destination – a single strip of wooden fencing – was the only man-made structure in sight when they finally came upon it, the Desert Rose a mere dot on the distant horizon.

According to Smith’s new employers, the fence was merely a way of marking where their own land ended, and they’d been the ones to suggest it when Elmer asked if they knew of some identifying feature in the untouched surrounding prairie. It was here that he and the others dismounted, and he and Smith tied their horses to the fence while Armand hacked away at some of the tallgrass with a wheat-scythe he’d borrowed from the farm.

After several minutes, Armand managed to clear out a small patch of space for them to move about more easily in – not that he’d removed a few yards worth of grass entirely – just made it so that the grass came up to their lower shins instead of their thighs. With some of the flora cleared, Elmer could finally make out a solitary barrel and smaller wooden crate on opposite ends of the fence, the latter of which Armand sat upon for a well-deserved minute’s rest.

Elmer shucked his long brown overcoat and handed it to Smith, who took it with trembling fingers. “This is _insanity_ ,” he whispered. “I – I don’t, I can’t–”

“Easy there,” Elmer said lightly. “Like I said, you’ve just got to make sure you cover my neck so that they can’t see the blood shimmering. My coat _should_ do the trick—all you’ve got to worry about is your acting. Remember, you’re the brave and dashing Gunsmith Smith, who’s just returned from a successful showdown with the likes of me. It might all _seem_ mad, but that’s what makes it fun!”

Smith swallowed, only to choke on his spit a moment later when Elmer clapped him on his back. While the man coughed, Elmer took off his bandanna and stuffed it into the saddlebag holding his coonskin cap. Stepping away from Maribel, Chicanery and the pinto, he strode over to the wooden barrel and knelt in front of it.

“Are you ready, Mikal?”

Armand marched toward him on his left with the grimness of a soldier. The setting sun glinted gold off the silver blade of the scythe, and Elmer’s heartbeat lurched. He lowered his head down over the barrel but couldn’t stop himself from watching the curved metal, his breath catching in his throat at the _shnk_ as Armand raised it into the air and oh, how it whistled as. it. fell.

❖ 

When Elmer came to, the first thing he noticed were the thistles digging into his back. The second was the warm and heavy cloth that currently draped his figure, and the third was the aching pain in his neck. He shifted, hissed, and opened his eyes to see a sky stained with indigo and raspberry hues. The underside of its clouds were tinted a dark dusky pink, and Elmer let out a gusty sigh when he saw Armand lean into his field of vision.

“What’d I miss?”

Armand’s mouth didn’t so much as twitch at Elmer’s joking tone, but his brow smoothened as he nodded over Elmer’s prone form to someone out of his line of sight. 

“Smith returned with your head just a minute or two ago. He’s so worked up I can hardly get a coherent sentence out of him, but from what I can gather it seems to have gone to plan. If not – we are far enough into the prairie that I doubt the brutes will run into us here.”

Elmer sat up, and twisted his neck experimentally. One last cervical vertebra slid into place with a satisfying click, and he let out a pleased little hum as his coat slid off his shoulders and into his lap. Smith edged into his line of vision while he rubbed his hands under the coat to return feeling to them. The man vibrated with nervous energy.

“It – it worked, it worked _I can’t believe it worked_ we got _away_ with it ohhhhhh god _damn_ that was one helluva hustle!”

Smith seemed to be on the verge of either a meltdown or a celebratory whoop. Elmer threw his head back and laughed at the sight, ignoring the twinges in his neck.

“Ha! Tell me all about it. Were they pleased with you?”

Smith took off his hat and wrung it between his hands. “Well – it happened like this. I entered and the boss, uh, he accused me of returning empty-handed and threatened to kill me where I stood. And then I held out the coat and I moved back the lapel to show ‘em your head. Boss couldn’t believe his eyes. Bet _he_ never beheaded anyone. Anyway right after that I announced that I was quitting and taking your head as a trophy.”

“But did any of them smile?” prompted Elmer. 

Smith sniggered. “The boss gave me the meanest grin I’ve ever seen. Downright nasty, that was. The others’ jaws just about hit the floor. Wow, I really showed ‘em! I ain’t nothing, no sir.” He smacked his fist into his palm and hollered a _yah_ before stretching his hand out to Elmer. 

“Lemme shake your hand. Look, I never thought we were gonna pull off your lunatic plan, but after _that_ – you’re either a crazy genius or one _heckuva_ lucky guy.”

Elmer tucked his coat under his left arm and accepted Smith’s hand up. The sun had almost completely set, and there were already stars visible through the wispy clouds above them.

“I’m glad things worked out,” he said, and meant it. “I really am. You look happy.”

“You bet!” Smith grinned, and sheepishly ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve quit the gang, and I’ve found myself a nice little forge job to boot. I was going to apologize for shooting at you earlier – but honestly I ain’t sorry. If I hadn’t, none of this woulda happened in the first place. Everything that happened today has been so outside the realm of sanity I – you know what, I enjoyed every bit of it. Thanks a bunch.”

Smith paused, looking at something over Elmer’s shoulder. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, and let go of Elmer’s hand.

Elmer turned to see Armand watching them from a slight distance. Smith strode up to the man, and stopped a foot or two away from him. A moment of silence passed, and then Smith stuck out his hand.

“I want to thank you as well. Now I know you probably still want to murder me, but if it weren’t for you scramming out of the saloon I wouldn’t have given chase in the first place. And I mean it when I say that I don’t plan to tell anyone of what I’ve seen today.” He paused, and chuckled softly. “Now _that_ would be insanity for sure.” 

Armand pursed his lips. He didn’t move for a few seconds, but Smith did not retract his arm. Finally, he reached out to clasp Smith’s hand.

“I understand,” he said gravely. “I believe you. Go forth and live freely – I shall not hunt you. Though, if I find that you have betrayed us…” The lines around his mouth tightened. “…I _will_ kill you.”

Smith yanked his hand out of Armand’s grasp and clutched at it with his left one, rubbing it as if he were in pain.

Armand brusquely jerked his head towards the western horizon – where the farmhouse lay somewhere in the distance.

“I wish you well.”

Smith departed on his horse soon after, explaining that the farmer couple was expecting him before dawn. Once he was gone, Elmer let out a puff of air and flopped back onto the shorn grass. Armand sat down beside him. 

“Good. We are alone.”

Elmer twisted onto his side, and with his left arm he propped his head up so that he could see his old companion.

“Don’t be so hard on him, Armikal! I thought he was a perfectly decent fellow.”

 _“…Armikal?”_ Armand frowned, and then sighed. “Your obsession with nicknames still lives on, I see.”

Elmer snickered. “What can I say? Old habits are hard to break.”

“Speaking of names…why Maribel?”

Elmer blinked. “Eh? What d’you mean by that?”

Armand glared at him, and then pointed one slender finger over at their two horses grazing by the fence.

“Your horse. You told me her name before I beheaded you. Did you name her?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah! I won her in a card game. I named her after a girl – well, I guess I should say a woman – I used to know. A…friend of mine. She’s dead, by the way.”

Armand leaned back in his seat. “…You would honor a woman by naming a _horse_ after her? A most ignoble dedication, I should think. A ship, perhaps, or a flower…but a _horse_? A puerile insult.” 

“I’ve never much cared about the opinions of the dead, you know. If Moni-Moni is cursing my name from the afterlife, then so be it – but then again, I don’t really believe in an afterlife. At any rate…aren’t you thinking about it rather close-mindedly? See…”

Elmer clasped his hands together in his lap. He bowed his head slightly, for appearance’s sake.

“…if you think about it, Maribel the horse is free to roam the plains as fast or slow as she pleases. She may serve a master, but I’ve never kept her locked up in some cramped stable or anything along those lines. Maribel the horse is free to be and free to do what she likes, if she so wishes it. Isn’t that a rather pleasant thought? Maribel is _free_. Ah, I’m not explaining this very well at all…”

Armand shook his head. There was a knowing, mournful look in his eyes.

“Speak no further. I understand, and I must apologize for my hasty and ignorant judgment. You are a better man than I gave you credit for.”

Elmer flopped back onto the ground, turning his gaze towards the stars. His grin was positively beatific.

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t, if I were you. To be perfectly honest, I just think that Maribel is a really fitting name for a horse.” 

❖ 

The two spent the night asleep in the open air, brazenly assuming that the posse would not wander in their direction and discover them. Their assumption was a lucky one: the night passed without incident. Elmer woke early the next morning to find Armand scraping at his stubble with his shaving knife, staring into a small mirror he’d hung over the fence. The sun had already crested over the horizon: a pale orange ranunculus floating atop a periwinkle river-sky, sending coral and gold-hued rays rippling overhead.   

“You’re awake,” Armand observed, without turning around. “I had thought you would not for some time, given the events of last evening.”

Elmer stretched, yawned, and ran a hand through his hair. “You know me—I bounce right back from just about anything!”

Armand coughed slightly. “…Not literally, if you recall." 

Elmer considered this. “Well, no. Would be neat if I could, though. Bet I could make lots of people smile.” 

Armand scoffed – and then hissed, the movement having caused him to nick his cheek. A small trickle of blood oozed down his skin and in the next moment it slunk back up his skin and into the cut.

“I think it suits you,” Elmer offered. “Your beard.”

Armand _tsked_ and turned to face him, lowering the shaving knife to rest on his thigh. “Please, anything but _consolation._ I want no more of it.” 

“I thought you were trying to blend in and act like a local, anyway. What are you up to?”

Armand avoided his gaze, and busied himself with polishing the knife on his shirt.

“I’ve…been taking your advice into consideration. I am for the first time cognizant that I have crossed this continent for the past hundred years as a dead man walking. I have not _lived_ for over one hundred years – can you imagine? It is a fate so stupidly tragic it would make a poet giddy.”

His eyes were wet.

“So I will _live._ First goes this vile stubble, and then the shabby hat – yes, I cannot tell you how long I have dreamed of my old blue justaucorps, my brocade vest – if I still had a soul I would trade it this very instant for a hot bath and a little pomade tin. Fleas plague my nights, and lice my daytimes. What was it you told me – to _eke out a living with the caribou_? – I shall do just that. I shall attend the finest opera back on the eastern coast and then I shall head north and north and North and fade away into the wilderness as best I can.”

The passion that had so violently moved his chest and whitened his knuckles during the speech vanished. He slumped a little in his seat, loose strands of hair hanging over his face.

“But first I must find Fritz.”

Elmer nodded, and nodded again. “So I’ve helped? You’re feeling…better?”

The grim fear that shadowed Armand’s face passed, and he set his jaw firmly. 

“You have. I am.”

Elmer nodded once more. “Good! So give us a smile, would you? I’m half-starved over here.” 

Armand stared at him and ducked his head with an abrupt, breathy laugh. His lips tugged tantalizingly upwards, broadening into something magnificently hopeful.

“…If I must.”

 

 

 

**March 1983**

**Saturday, 7:30 PM**

Peregrine Airlines Flight 137 had been up in the air for an hour when the first explosion rocked its frame, eliciting gasps from its passengers as they scrambled for their seatbelts and gripped their armrests with taut fingers. When no reassuring explanation from the captain crackled forth over the intercom, all eyes turned to the nearest flight attendant for relief.

“It’s all right,” she said, “this isn’t uncommon,” and she moved onward to comfort an aisle passenger who’d started emitting panicked hiccups in rapid succession.

“That’s right!”

 _Now_ all eyes turned to a window seat by the emergency exit, where one Elmer C. Albatross had unfastened his seatbelt and stood up with nary a care.

“There’s nothing to worry about – it sounds like the plane lost an engine, that’s all. And airplanes can fly no problem when one of their engines goes kaput, so…”

He stretched his arms wide.

“…Cheer up and smile, everyone!”

The passenger sitting to his right stared up at him uncomprehendingly, and the entire row behind him burst out into low, restless mutters.

“Sir,” said the flight attendant, “please sit down and refasten your seatbelt _immediately_.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me!” Elmer jabbed his right thumb toward his chest. “I’ll be just fine, because—”

The plane banked sharply to the right, and he stumbled forward; his face slammed into the wall in front of him, nose breaking at the force, tingling pain spreading throughout his forehead. Elmer peeled himself away from the wall and turned to face the passengers – already his nasal bones were repositioning himself under rapidly stretching skin and cartilage. Thick rivulets of blood slinked back up over his chin and lips and into his nostrils, and he chuckled sheepishly. 

“—I’m immortal!”

The plane shuddered, and a middle-aged woman shrieked from her middle seat five rows back. The flight attendant was the first person to recover, years of training kicking in. “Be that as it may, sir, you still pose a danger to others. Return to your seat and refasten your seatbelt.”

She’d made a fair point, and Elmer relented and returned to his seat – though he made sure to have the last word.

“I meant what I said, though – everyone go on and smile! There’s nothing to worry abou—”

The plane _fell_.

Not straight down as a stone would, but at a steep diagonal slicing through the sky. Screams reverberated throughout the plane, and a wrenching groan hissed between the lips of the man sitting on Elmer’s right. From somewhere behind them, the wails of an infant rose high above the din. Another flight attendant emerged from first class to speak with their flight attendant, who nodded afterward and moved as best she could to the middle of the aisle.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take this time to ensure that your seatbelts are tightly secured over your laps, and that your seats are upright, your trays properly stowed, and your cigarettes extinguished. If you would turn your attention to the safety pamphlet in front of you…”

With a steady voice and calm expression, the flight attendant walked the passengers through a few brace positions, which all the passengers, she said, should assume when the captain and attendants give the order. Then, never once using any iteration of the word ‘crash’, she explained what the passengers would need to do once the airplane came to a stop on the ground. Her audience was totally silent, fixing her with an undivided, desperate attention they’d never afforded any attendant before.

When finished, the attendant walked down the aisle and back into the gallery – presumably to strap herself in.

The muffled sobs of a woman were the first to break the silence. They were followed by others’ whispered prayers, muttered profanities, desperate words of comfort shared between family and friends.

For a whole minute, Elmer sat and said nothing and sat and thought nothing until he pushed himself upward in his seat and twisted round as best he could, even as his armrests shook underneath his hands.

“Come on – I know the situation looks bleak, but the best thing you could do right now is keep on smiling. It’ll make things a lot easier and less stressful if you just smile.”

Most of those nearby turned their heads to look at him.

“You, you—I don’t know _what_ you are,” snarled the portly, balding fifty-something man in aisle seat 38C, “Devil, ghoul, whatever, how the _hell_ is anybody supposed to smile, huh, you smug _bastard_ , you’re just smiling because you’re going to crawl out of this alive—”

“Oh God, please – please, if that wasn’t a trick, if you really are some sort of eternal being—” a woman three rows behind him leaned forward, pleading with her eyes, her hunched shoulders, her trembling lips, “—Can’t you make _us_ immortal, too?”

“My baby!” shrieked another woman, half-rising in her seat. “Take her, take her, _take her_ and protect her with your body, _save my child—!_ ”

Something like impatience bristled at the back of Elmer’s neck, even as his stomach rose to meet his throat while the plane hurtled closer and closer to Earth. They’d already passed through the last major cloud layer, and stretches of farmed land and patches of woodland grew more and more detailed through the window with every passing minute.

“All you have to is smile,” he said, even as he reached his arms out for the baby. The frenzied woman fumbled with her seatbelt with one hand, balancing her infant with her free arm.

“Ma’am, please _remain seated—_ ”

“…If I were you, I’d want to go out with a genuine smile on my face.”

“All crew and passengers, _brace for impact_.”

The man next to Elmer leaned forward and grabbed his ankles, and Elmer craned his head to see some doing the same. Others placed their hands underneath their thighs and leant forward with rigid limbs, while others pressed their palms against the seat in front of them and touched their foreheads to the backs of their hands.

_Brace.     Brace.       Brace.       Brace._

The eerily steady chant of the attendants pierced the sobs and prayers of the passengers still capable of making sound, and overcame even the infant’s cries.

Elmer did not brace for impact; he instead shouted – as loudly as possible – “Smile, everyone, I know you can do it!” and ducked down back into his seat to grab the shoulder of the quivering man on his right.

“Come on,” he urged. “Come on, just smile, won’t you? For all you know—”

The plane rolled to the right, and a tremendous force originating from the left wing sent shockwaves across its metal frame. The ground, the ground, they – _contact._

Elmer bit straight through his tongue; metal groaned about him, somewhere in front him came a hideous shriek of metal blasting apart – cold air on his face – the plane bounced off the Earth and rose, debris and luggage floated in the air like dust particles, blood filled his mouth and burbled between his lips and his elbow banged against the door to his left and cracked the wrong way. There! went his seatmate, hurtling out of his seat his skull smashing against the ceiling _topsy-turvy_ he thought as he drowned, something heavy slammed against his neck _oh._

  

The slick movement of blood trickling over his forehead and eyelids towards his mouth brought Elmer out of death and back into the realm of consciousness. He kept his eyes screwed shut - he didn’t need his eyesight to know that he was currently hanging upside-down in his upside-down seat, somehow still strapped in by his seatbelt. Rather than focus on the last trickles of blood now oozing up past his nose and seeping through his lips and the sealing hole in his tongue, he directed his attention towards his ulna and radius reknitting, his elbow fitting the right way, the aching of his neck.

It wasn’t the sensation of his tongue mending itself that eventually prompted Elmer to open his eyes, but the stench of charring flesh and jet fuel. Wailing. Buffeting breezes both hot and cold on either side of him.

So, he opened his eyes, found himself – as he’d assumed - upside-down with half of the airplane frame to his left torn away to reveal a dark evening sky. The roof of the plane lay wrinkled underneath him, covered in scattered chairs, luggage contents, and the remains of an indeterminable amount of people.

There was no help for it; he clumsily unfastened his seatbelt, only to find it jammed. A few sharp tugs of the left cord proved successful, and he fell five yards downward onto metal, tearing a large gash through the skin of his upper right arm on some protruding part of the ceiling. It was a trifle compared to what he’d just been through, and he slid off the ceiling and crumpled onto the ground, vaguely surprised to find that his legs could not support his weight.

Screams drove him onward.

He went for the tail first, which had separated from his part of the plane completely during the initial impact. Most of it was embroiled in jet-fuel fed flames, a veritable wall of heat and smoke that even the most courageous firefighter would surely never dare to cross.

 _Elmer_ dared, for the sounds of human misery rang in his ears and never once reached his heart, and he scrambled under the bottom of a tail wing and grabbed hold of a fiery, fuel-soaked hand. The flames and fuel quickly spread to his own hand; as did intense, agonizing pain – but then, he’d been burned before, hadn’t he? Yes. This was just…a little _hotter_. That was all. So he ignored the noxious smell of his own hand tumid and peeling – he pulled, and pulled, and finally tugged a woman out from where she lay unable to move.

She no longer had the voice to scream – she only choked on smoke through desiccated blue lips as her skin burst under clothes half-melted to her body, her hair singed away to reveal a blackened skull. A scorched rib poked out from her torso – Elmer suspected more had broken – giving off an acrid odor that pierced air thick with the fetid taste of sulfur and charcoal. Her hand melded with his, and his with hers, and for a brief, lucid moment, her gaze met his gaze and stayed put.

“Try to smile,” he whispered, though at this point he wasn’t holding out much hope for one. “It’ll be over soon enough.”

It _was_ over soon enough, and once he’d managed to put his hand out and his skin reformed, he got to his feet and resumed searching for survivors whose smiles he still had a chance of coaxing to life.

 

 

 

**December 1700**

**Saturday, 1:30 AM**

The groaning creak of splintering wood cut through the fog as the party hurried down the road. Sturdy leather boots and iron horseshoes kicked up mud, and smoke spluttered from torches clutched in white-knuckled hands elevated in an effort to cut through the gloaming. A few cloaked individuals muttered sibilant Spanish invocations as they clutched rosaries to their chests, but even their most sacred utterances were muffled by mist and swallowed whole. 

One of the soldiers looked down at the boy swathed in blankets up to his nose in the wooden cart as they moved. Hoarfrost dusted the boy’s eyelashes, and his cheeks burned a worrying scarlet. The boy lay motionless despite the rocking of the cart, and despite the injuries that the blankets hid from view. Dark patches of blood blotched thick wool, and the soldier prayed that their scouts had reached the doctors in time.

A scout shouted salutations off in the distance and came into view half a minute later, holding up a lantern in his right hand.

“This way!”

The group followed the scout’s lead as he turned left, and kept as close to him as they could. The light of the scout’s lantern did little to pierce the gloom, and even the most devout among them ceased their prayers and the others their muttered conversations to listen to the footsteps of the scout’s horse.

Underneath the soldier’s feet the ground gently sloped upwards, and it took that much more effort to lift his heavy boots out of the mud with every step. He stared at the flame flickering inside the scout’s lantern and yearned for the warmth of a hearth, miserably stifling a cough into his arm.

“We are nearly there, friend! Take heart, for I have kept my ear to the ground and I can tell you – I tell you, Alonso, we will be given ale and hot broth after all this is over.”

The soldier – Alonso – turned and saw his good friend Baltasar approaching from his left. His spirits lifted; Baltasar was by nature a warm and cheerful fellow whose mission in life was to enjoy it, nothing more.

Baltasar clapped him on his back, and surreptitiously leaned over to examine the cart’s contents. “And how is our little ward? Not yet dead, one hopes?”

Alonso scoffed, and then grimaced. “He has suffered so much for a child…I admit it was all I could do not to run through those blasphemers on the spot when we arrived. I have never seen the like of such evil as I did in that village, Baltasar.”

His eyes fell upon the boy in the cart. Unease crawled up his spine and left goose bumps in its wake.

“The child, too, is strange. Unnatural.” He swallowed, and averted his gaze.

Baltasar chortled. “Oho? I haven’t seen you so out of sorts in some time.” He scuttled around Alonso, squeezed himself past Cristóbal and Diego, and positioned himself on the other side of the cart. Putting one hand on the wooden guardrail, Baltasar cooed at the boy and waggled his eyebrows at Alonso. “He looks like a perfectly normal torture victim to me.”

Alonso tightened his lips, once again aware of how isolated their little envoy felt – surrounded by nothing but thick fog on all sides. With his gloved right hand, he reached for the blanket covering the lower part of the boy’s face and sharply tugged it downward.

With the movement, the boy’s entire face was exposed. His mouth stretched back in a leering, unchanging grin – teeth glinting underneath near-blue lips. It was _wrong_. God above, it was _wrong_. It was grotesque. It was the exact same smile that the boy had been wearing when Alonso and the others had rescued him, and it was the sort of smile that no one sane would wear when in such pain as the boy surely ought to have been.

He drew the blanket back up and over the boy’s mouth, and shuddered. “...The devil’s smile plays upon his lips.”

❖ 

The convoy finally reached the town’s little church a few minutes later, and several people emerged from the church’s entrance with a purposeful vigor nearly alien to the soldiers sluggish and fatigued from the cold. Still, the warm light spilling out from the church doors roused Alonso from his stupor just enough for him to step back from the cart. Moments later, two men lifted the boy upward and carried him into the church with silent efficiency.

The flurry of activity ended just as quickly as it started, and Alonso watched blearily as his captain spoke with one of the local guards. After what felt like an eternity, his captain raised his head and addressed the troops. 

“The local watchmen have agreed to take first watch over the church, since you all are in need of rest and respite from the cold. I am told that the local inn is open and will provide us with ale and hot broth for our trouble. We will go there now. And men,” he added, his voice softening, “you have done well.”

No one elected to muster up even the most hoarse and quiet of cheers, for they were all too exhausted for that. The group turned and trudged towards the inn in question, their movements so torpid that an onlooker might have wondered how they’d ever managed to come this far in the first place.

Alonso only made it a few steps before his leaden legs betrayed him. He stumbled and would have collapsed into the mud were it not for good, dependable Baltasar who caught him just as he pitched forward.

“Easy there, now.” Baltasar slung Alonso’s right arm over his shoulder, and then threw his own left arm over Alonso’s shoulders. “Come on, we’ll go it together. It’s not so far, anyway! We’ll forget the little devil-boy and drink ourselves into a comfortable sleep and all will be well in the end, without a doubt.”

❖ 

Sister Catalina de Palencia stood in the nave of the little church, lost in thought. To her right, her much younger companion Sister Ana Lomelin sat in devout prayer in one of the pews, her hands clasped and her eyes shut as she whispered psalms under her breath. _Good girl_. Ana had been the right choice after all; she was young, eager to please, and a touch too naïve for her own good. This would be a most conducive trip for her.

Their abbey had received a letter from the parish priest of this very church one week ago. In the letter, the priest had informed them that the Church had recovered a most grievously injured boy from the hands of a group of most depraved and heathen souls, and that he believed the boy would benefit from the attention of a pious woman. The abbey was the closest one he could think of, and if the Abbess would be so kind as to spare some of her nuns…

The Abbess had selected Catalina for the mission. “Your age lends you wisdom, and your heart overflows with kindness and good sense. I can think of no-one better.” Catalina agreed to go – but with one request. She had asked that she be allowed to bring one young, new member of their Order along with her. Experience, she had said. The Abbess acquiesced in turn.

There was one part of the letter that had niggled at Catalina at the time. She had shared her caution with the Abbess:

_“I admit that I am somewhat taken aback by the language Father Domingo Macías used … to refer to this boy as a ‘Miracle Child’ is no small declaration.”_

She and Ana had arrived a day ago, and neither of them had yet seen this so-called miracle child that the Lord Himself had blessed. Catalina did not yet know what sort of wounds “grievously injured” entailed, but apparently they were severe enough that every day following the boy’s arrival his doctor had announced that he would likely not see the next morning’s light.

Well. He had clung to life this long – that surely was _something_.

“Sister Catalina!”

Catalina turned and saw one of the doctor’s assistants beckoning for her from the east arcade. She hurried over to his side.

“He is awake. I thought you might want to meet him.”

“I would,” she replied. “At once.”

She followed the assistant to the door of the church’s guest room, which was normally intended for errant weary travellers to spend the night in. It was lucky that the church had a guest room at all, she supposed.

The assistant knocked on the door, waited, and then gently pushed it open.

“He’s very weak,” he advised, in hushed tones. “Please, do try not to overexcite him.”

Catalina _hmphed_. “The thought never crossed my mind,” she said, and swept past him into the little room.

Her attention was immediately drawn to the bed, the head of which was situated under a small window. Upon the bed lay a boy on his back, multiple woolen blankets draped over his body. A doctor sat in a chair by the boy’s bedside; he stood as Catalina entered but she paid little heed to the courtesy, sucking in a breath as she took in the boy’s wounds.

The blankets were drawn up to the boy’s naked mid torso. Bandages swathed his chest, and from underneath the cloth peeked numerous ghastly scars – among them a particularly nasty grey knot of scars mottling his left shoulder, a series of needle-thin white lines crisscrossing his collarbone like cobwebs, grisly purple-black ridges curving around his side. Half-melted red skin poked out from under the bandages covering the right side of his chest, but she could only imagine the lengths to which the burns ran under the cloth. If the doctor had told her that the bandages covered nothing but dead tissue, she would have believed him.

“You have no idea to what extent the damage is underneath those bandages,” the doctor croaked. “I could not describe it to you if I tried. I have tended to countless victims of maltreatment over the years, but this boy… I truly believe it is a miracle he has not succumbed to his wounds. God has undoubtedly blessed him.”

“A miracle…” Catalina brought her right hand to her lips, and with her left she clutched her rosary beads. Looking at the boy with her own eyes, she found it impossible to disagree. Ignoring the injuries – ignoring the blood dampening the cloth bandages, the new and old scars alike – the boy had obviously been starved. His cheeks were hollow, his collarbone noticeably defined through his waxy skin. But most disconcerting of all (shame coursed through her at the very thought) was the _smile_ he wore. It was so incongruent with his wounds that it stood out above all else, try as she might to ignore it.

The boy shifted upon the bed sheets, a whimper escaping through his teeth. Though the pain caused him to furrow his brow, his smile did not waver.

“There are more wounds littering his back,” the doctor explained, regret clear upon his face. “But what can I do? Have him lay upon his side?”

A sob sounded from the doorway. Catalina spun around and found Ana quivering at the limen, her hands pressed tightly against her mouth.

“Sister Ana!” she exclaimed, hurrying over to take her younger companion by the arm. For a moment she considered sending Ana away, but then – filled with resolve – she led her further into the room.

“My dear girl,” she said. “Open your eyes. Be _not_ afraid – open your eyes, Ana! Would you be so unkind as to deny him your attention? It is the least we can offer him. “

Ana complied. Her hands drifted down from her face, and she composed herself as best she could. Finally, she asked, “Doctor? Why does he smile like that?”

The doctor shook his head. “I am not the one you should be asking. Father Domingo believes that the child is possessed, and is readying for an exorcism. He has already received permission from his bishop, and these last few days he has been away purifying himself in preparation.”

 _An exorcism_. Catalina approached the other side of the boy’s bed and looked down upon the child. “Surely he is not well enough for such a thing?”

“We…shall see,” the doctor responded, after a moment. His expression brightened. “I think he just might pull through now – yes, I think he will. What more harm could an exorcism possibly inflict upon him?”

Before Catalina could respond, Ana blurted, “Sister Catalina, I am leaving to pray!” and she made a hasty exit through the doorway and out into the arcade.

 _Silly, sweet girl_.

The boy’s eyelids fluttered, and opened to reveal dark blue eyes. He opened and closed his mouth rather like the red bream and hake Catalina ate as a child.

Catalina gestured toward the pitcher of water and cup on the other side of the bed. The doctor filled the cup of water and handed it to her; she supported the boy’s head with one hand, and helped him to drink.

His thirst mildly quenched, the boy licked his lips and tried to speak once more.

“…wh…hu…hullo...whazzhappennnned…wher’m I?”

The doctor stared at him uncomprehendingly. It took Catalina several long seconds to realize that the boy had just spoken in _English_.

 _Well_. It had been a very good thing indeed that the Abbess had chosen _her_ after all.

“Little child,” she soothed, stroking the boy’s brow. “You are in a church in _España_. You have no thing to fear. You are safe now. Those people will not hurt you ever again.”

He shivered under her touch. “Where…people? Where…”

Catalina paused. “I do not know. I am sorry.” It was the truth. She had not been told of the heathens’ fates. Perhaps it was best she never knew.

The boy’s smile faltered for the first time that night, and her heart ached. “No no, do not be afraid, we will save you from the danger now. It will all be very fine. I promise.”

He looked away.

“God _saved_ you,” she insisted. “The Lord Almighty _saved_ you. You are _special_ , child. You will _live._ ”

The boy licked his lips again, and furrowed his brow.

“God…ssssaved me…?”

“Yes. He, in all His Love, saved you from those terrible people just in time.” Tears welled in her eyes; righteous tears at the injustice the boy had endured, and tears of gratitude for His grace. “We are very fortunate that He did.”

The boy looked blankly at her, and let his head fall back onto the pillow.

“The child is exhausted,” the doctor said. “Thank you, Sister, but I must ask you to leave him to his sleep. You may visit him tomorrow if he is well.”

Catalina nodded, and bid the boy farewell. As she returned to the nave, it occurred to her that she still did not know the boy’s name.

❖ 

Over a week passed, during which Catalina visited the boy as much as possible. The doctor was right – the boy was recovering, little by little – and what time she spent outside of the boy’s sickroom she spent in thankful prayer.

One afternoon, she returned from the midday dinner with Ana to sit in the pew closest to the boy’s room. There, her full stomach and warm attire lulled her into a light doze, and just when she was on the cusp of slipping into a deeper sleep, the sound of metal clanging rang out from inside the guest room. Seized with fright, Catalina forced herself to her feet and threw open the door.

He was not on his bed – where, where was he? Catalina could just make out the sounds of dry heaving from the other side of the bed and she moved in its direction.

The boy lay prone on the floor, his back facing her. A large red burn scar poked out from both ends of the bandages swathed around his otherwise naked midsection, but now was not the time to puzzle out what wounds had been inflicted upon his back. He kept all his weight on his right arm – and it was clearly an effort just to support his body weight, judging from the tremors that ran through his body. Vomit and urine slopped over the side of his tilted chamber pot, which he hunched over and propped up with shaking hands.

“O, my child!” She knelt at his side, hands hovering over his wounds, wanting to place a comforting hand on his back but refraining due to the pain she would surely cause. The smell was so foul and sharp that she could practically taste it in the air, but years of tending to the ill and dying had hardened her to such things. “What has happened here?”

“Had to…vomit…” The boy blanched, and heaved again. “Didn’t wuh-want to…disturb you…”

“Never say such a thing again,” Catalina exclaimed. “You must _call_ for me when you need me, don’t you understand? You poor, poor boy.”

“Puh-please don’t cry…” the boy hissed, wiping away the saliva leaking out of his mouth with the back of his left hand. “I think it makes me feel bad when you cry... Please smile for me, Sister.”

At the word _smile_ , it registered with Catalina for the first time that there had been some semblance of a smile present on the boy’s face even as he expelled his morning gruel from his system.

“I—I—” She faltered. “Come, let us get you cleaned up.”

Once the boy was clean and the mess on the floor wiped away, she resettled him back into his bed and gave him some water. As he drank, she sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. “I know it has been hard,” she began, “but you are getting better every day, even if it is not obvious. You are blessed by God, after all.” She patted him on his leg.

The boy slurped down the last of the water, and peered at her over the rim of his cup.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he rasped. “I’m not.”

Catalina pressed her hand to her breast. “You should not think so upsettingly of yourself, dear. Without God’s grace, you may surely have died, and I am so griefened by the thought…”

“But I don’t believe He exists.”

The words were said so plaintively, so matter-of-factly that the full gravity of what the boy said did not hit her until a good ten seconds after he uttered them. Catalina clutched at her rosaries, aghast.

“My child…! You should never, ever say such things.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron, and seized his left hand in a fit of passion. “The Lord loves you, and He saved you in your moment of largest need. He loves you, _niño_ , I know it. I am not a woman who lacks sense, you know I would not say this if I did not mean it.”

The boy’s expression clouded over. “I’ve upset you, haven’t I?” He hesitated, and with great effort patted her hands with his free right hand. “I’m sorry. I won’t say something like that again.”

She smiled. “You are a very sweet young man. When you are feeling better,” _after the exorcism_ , “we will pray together in the nave. But for now, you should sleep. You are clearly tired – and I think coming down with fever. I will fetch you a cool cloth.”

He nodded and she rose and left the room, satisfied.

❖ 

Father Domingo Macías returned the next day from his purification rituals. He began the exorcism the day after, while Catalina and Ana were away tending to the nearby cemetery.

“How could he have begun without us,” Catalina had complained, when she’d received the news from one of the watchmen. She and Ana hastened back to the church; when they entered the nave, they saw the doctor’s assistant pacing back and forth in front of the guest room’s closed door.

“How long has it been going on?” she asked him.

“Two hours, perhaps,” muttered the man. “The Father spent such a long time asking for the demon’s name – over and over, he asked it for its name, but it would not answer. Perhaps he has found it by now. I do not know. It is all very queer.”

Catalina squared her jaw, and turned to Ana.

“We will go in for just a little while, and support him as best we can. He is the only one here who can free the child from the demon, but our presence may at least lend him strength. Stay strong, Sister.”

Ana nodded, and with that the two of them slipped inside.

Father Domingo stood by the bed, interrogating the demon in a sonorous timbre. Lined against the wall behind him were two of his clergymen, their hands clasped in prayer. Catalina and Ana joined them, sparing glances over at the Miracle Child on the bed.

Catalina was displeased to see that his hands had been tied to the bedposts – already the skin was chafed around his wrists. The child was flushed, and intelligible words dribbled from his mouth as constantly as the sweat dripping down his skin and soaking through his linen shirt.

“The devil’s tongue!” Ana gasped in fright and pressed herself against the wall. “The devil himself speaks!”

“My dear girl,” Catalina tutted reprovingly, “that is _English_.”

One of the clergymen shot them a warning look, and she lowered her voice even further. “A perfectly real language I assure you, no matter how close to the devil’s tongue it may be.”

Ana blushed from embarrassment, and reached for her rosary beads. Catalina did the same – but try as she might, she couldn’t focus on Father Domingo’s words. How could she focus on anything but the boy writhing on the bed upon his tortured back? Her rosaries slipped between her fingers, and hung limply on her apron. The boy’s spine arched, and he blinked his eyelids open once. His irises had rolled to the back of his sockets.

Father Domingo raised his voice, stentorian thunder against the rivulet of gibberish that slobbered forth from the boy’s mouth. The hideous contrast in noise was too much, and the room was too small, her throat was too _tight_ –

“Sister Ana, I am leaving to pray!”

Catalina moved away from the others, fumbled for the doorknob, and slipped out of the room. The wide, open space of the nave instantly eased some of the terrible tension in her throat, and the air was blessedly cool after the confines of the guest room. She made for the pews, noticing belatedly that the doctor’s assistant was hot on her heels asking question after question she couldn’t bear to hear.

She whirled about to face him, firmly snatched his wrist and forced him down into a pew. His backside met the wooden seat with a painful-sounding smack, and he gaped at her, eyes boggling in their sockets.

“Pray with me.” She still didn’t know his name, but now was not the time to ask for it. He hesitated, and then clasped his hands together with inexperienced movements. Catalina closed her eyes.

They did not move for hours.

❖ 

The baptism took place on Sunday, and Father Domingo had asked that Catalina and Ana not attend. In fact, she was not allowed to visit the boy for two days afterward, a wait only made barely tolerable through Ana’s earnest efforts to engage her in distracting conversation.  When a cleric finally flagged her down in the cemetery with the news that the boy could now receive visitors, she nearly bowled the poor man over in her haste back to the church.

She spotted Father Domingo exiting the guest room just as she entered the church’s front entrance, and forgetting herself, forgetting all propriety, she shouted, “Father? Father, please!”

His robes shifted as he turned to greet her, eyebrows arching in shock.

“Father,” she panted, “what am I to _call_ him?”

The arched eyebrows furrowed immediately, and the lines around his mouth deepened, almost as if he were reluctant to answer. She waited with bated breath, filled with an anxiety she did not understand. She did not understand why it was so _important_ for her to know, nor why she cared as much as she suddenly did. The priest folded his hands in front of him, his expression carefully blank.

“You may call him…Ælthelmer.”

❖ 

The boy’s recovery progressed promisingly over the next few weeks, and Catalina devoted herself to his bedside with a dedication that nearly threatened to supersede her spiritual life. She refused to wonder why the soldiers who’d first brought him to the church had yet to leave town, she ceased dwelling over all the questions she had and the answers she’d been denied, and when the locals began knocking at the church doors with gifts for the blessed boy and request after request to see him in person, she went straight to Father Domingo and demanded he call for a locksmith to install a lock on the guest bedroom door.

Catalina told Ælthelmer nothing of the throngs or the soldiers, and instead set to work on teaching him the local language as best she could. Luckily, Ælthelmer learned quickly – and as the weeks became a month, and a month became two, she’d integrated the basics of writing into her lessons. When she wrote his name for him down upon a scrap of parchment, one Monday afternoon, he stared at it for a long moment before taking her quill and streaking large quantities of ink across several letters.

“I like it better this way,” he said, in English.

“Why is that?”

“Because I like it,” he replied, in Spanish, and _Ælthelmer_ from then on was known as _Elmer_.

❖ 

“Hullo, little devil-boy! Are you there? The world would like to speak with you, you know! We’ve all gotten very tired of waiting.”

“Let’s return to the inn, Baltasar,” Alonso pleaded, sure that any second now someone would trudge up the hill and spot them. “Nothing good will come of your prying.”

“Hang the inn,” Baltasar said cheerfully, readjusting his stepstool under the window. “You and I went to a lot of trouble to save this boy’s life, and I’m going to _pry_ whether you like it or not. More than two months have passed and he has yet to set a foot outside the church and I want to know why.” He straightened, and stretched his back.

“Why, he could have been dead for all this time and none of us the wiser!”

Baltasar had a point, and it wasn’t as if Alonso wasn’t curious himself about the so-called Miracle Child. The soldiers had grown restless as of late, Alonso included. No wonder - forced to stay in a backwater village with nothing to do, supposedly guarding a boy they’d never seen _once_ since they’d saved him. News was hard to come by, here, which was the last thing any of them wanted given the political uncertainty since the death of their king.

Well, admittedly none of them had really _cared_ about the distant political climate (nor had they really _known_ anything about it) before – but now that they had nothing to do and now that it seemed to be affecting them directly it was all anyone could talk about half the time.

Several of Alonso’s comrades – _Baltasar_ included – were convinced that the real reason they hadn’t left the village yet was because the Church had yet to figure out what to _do_ with them. If and when the political foofaraw boiled over and war was declared, their regiment could very well end up be called to fight or patrol with all the rest. Better to leave them in limbo, better to not deal with them now when there were other things to worry about.

 _Still_ , Alonso mused, _if the devil-boy really was blessed by God, then why hasn’t the Church done more than it has?_ He was just a soldier, granted, but it seemed to him that miracles were supposed to be fussed and fawned over by people, not kept away from them. The plump, holier-than-thou nun and her prettier companion kept mum on the boy, and even the doctor’s assistant who nipped into the inn now and again was surprisingly good at holding his tongue.

Baltasar stepped up onto the stool and peered into the little window.

“Oh, devil-boy, won’t you show your face? No need to by shy…” Baltasar sang. “Come out, come ou— _hup!”_ He nearly toppled backwards on the stool at the face that had appeared in the window. Alonso shuffled backwards until he had a better view – and with a lurch of his stomach, he recognized the boy’s smile at once, painted on a face that was healthier than it had once been but was still mostly forgettable in its ordinariness. The _smile_ , though – no, he could not forget _that_ smile.

“Ho there, devil-boy, you gave me a start.” Baltasar shoved his right hand into his trouser pocket. “You haven’t forgotten a handsome face like mine, have you? The face of one of your saviors – why, of course not. I’m sure you remember Alonso here – nowhere near as handsome as me, of course, but he has a good heart. You understand me at all?” He winked at Alonso. “Or maybe a miracle only knows how to speak the language of angels.”

After a pregnant pause, the boy gave his answer in accented Spanish. “…Only a little.”

Baltasar nodded to himself, and withdrew his hand from his pocket to reveal several small river stones. “Well, that’s fine. We’ll play a game, you and I – and who needs a common language to play a game?”

 _Kapichua,_ Alonso realized, his fitful watch for potential passersby nearly forgotten in his bewilderment. _He wanted to play kapichua? That’s what he planned to do this whole time?_ It seemed so, for Baltasar was tossing a stone up into the air – demonstrating how to play? _But what’s the point? This whole encounter, for something as trivial as a game?_

“Got it? Ah, well, you’ll pick it up as you go along.”

And so – to Alonso’s amazement – the game commenced. Baltasar tossed, picked up a stone, caught the taw, and the first couple minutes passed in silence.

“Well you know, we’ve all been dying to meet you, devil-boy,” remarked Baltasar, as he caught the taw again. “How’s life? I bet it’s exciting behind this wall, otherwise you’d have come out a lot sooner, eh?”

A pause. “ _I think I remember you. You took me away. Did you kill them all?_ ”

Whatever hopes Alonso still harbored vanished in an instant. He didn’t know the boy’s language, and he was sure Baltasar didn’t either. Their visit really _had_ been for naught.

Baltasar hummed thoughtfully, only to curse when he failed to pick up a single stone. With his turn ended, he stretched and offered the boy a quick reply in Spanish.

“You know, a little birdie told me that some people want you out of this village soon! They want to take you to some famous church in a faraway city, where important holy people will want to talk with you all the time. _Did_ you know, cooped up in your little cage all day?”

Alonso froze. _He_ hadn’t known. He hadn’t heard any rumors like that, and Baltasar had never let on that _he_ had. When had – how had – never mind how, if what he was saying was true…

 _“Sister Catalina seems happy taking care of me, but I’m worried about Sister Ana. I think she misses the convent. I don’t like it when she’s sad._ ”

The boy must have fumbled his turn, for Baltasar let out a hearty laugh and took the taw back in hand. Alonso couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Baltasar really _did_ understand what the boy was saying – at this point, nothing would surprise him.

“Will you be sad to leave a town you hardly knew? Just think – you’ll be examined and interrogated and lauded like every good little miracle is.”

_“I really like your laugh. I don’t know how to describe it. It was, it was…warm? I want to laugh like that.”_

“Look at you, smiling and smiling. Isn’t he something, Alonso? If only we could all be so happy.”

“ _Is your friend laughing too? I can’t see him._ ”

“Assuming, of course, that he _is_ happy.”

“ _My family used to laugh a lot. I gave them happiness – isn’t that great? I want to make lots more people smile. I think I can do it – after all, my family smiled all the time because of me._ ”

“Say, devil-boy, is there anything inside of you? Anything at all?”

“ _I like your smile. It’s so sincere! Am I smiling like you’re smiling? I can’t tell – do you know?_ ”

Alonso could barely keep up with the pair’s rapid exchange of dialogue – Spanish on one end, English on the other, each interlocutor speaking casually as if they fully understood what the other was saying. Giving up, he idly turned his head to the right and choked at the sight of the two nuns walking up the hill path towards the church.

_How could I have been so stupid!_

“Bal, Baltasar,” he croaked, “We’ve got to go, right now.”

Baltasar frowned, looking over at him. “That’s just unfair.”

“ _We’vegottogonow_ ,” Alonso hissed, hurrying forward to press himself against the chapel wall.

“All fun must come to an end.” Baltasar shrugged, and swept the stones off the windowsill and into his hand. “Well, devil-boy, I enjoyed myself today. If you want to play with me some more, come find me at the inn. I’ll be waiting!”

Alonso dragged Baltasar around the back of the church just as soon as he’d scooped up the stool, and waited with nervous taps of his foot and twitches of his fingers. When no shadow appeared at the corner, he sighed in relief.

“That was too close,” he chided, sinking to the ground with his back against the wall. “Idiot.”

“Oho? You yourself ended up fairly engrossed by our game, did you not? You only just noticed those Sisters at the last minute.”

Alonso flushed, but could not come up with a retort. Baltasar joined him on the ground and slung an arm around his shoulders.

“Well! Did I tell you, or did I tell you? It all worked out splendidly.”

“ _Did_ it?” blurted Alonso, very tired now of being out of the loop. “Last I knew, the only other language you claimed to speak was the ‘language of love,’ you complete _ass_. What was that ridiculous exchange just now? Who’s the little birdie? You just made that up, didn’t you, you and your stupid games, why did we even _go_ –”

“For someone so afraid of being caught, you’re being awfully loud right now.”

Alonso shot to his feet and stormed off around the other corner, away from the chapel and back down the hill.

Baltasar caught up with him easily. Of course he did. Alonso glowered.

“All right, hold your horses, ‘Lonso. You’re right – I had no idea what the puppet-boy was going on about. Not for a second. As for the little birdie, well, don’t worry about that for now. It may end up just another rumor.”

Alonso wasn’t willing to let the second issue go completely, but for now, fine. He’d play along. “So you’re telling me we risked punishment for…nothing.”

“Not so,” countered Baltasar, swinging the footstool as he walked. “We wanted to see the boy. We did. _I_ wanted to give him a little something in the way of entertainment. I did. Further, I wanted to figure out just what sort of boy the Lord Himself deigned to bless.”

“And…did you?”

Baltasar shrugged, kicking up tufts of muddied grass with every other step he took.  “The Lord works in funny ways, extending his charity to the soulless.”

“Baltasar!”

“Well, I say soulless.” Baltasar let out a humorless laugh. “Who am I to judge whether or not someone has a soul? But I ask you this, Alonso – if you smiled perpetually like that boy did, wouldn’t you want your smile to be anything but _empty_?”

Alonso’s pace ground to a halt.

“Puppet-boy…”

“Doesn’t sound right, does it?” Baltasar stopped as well, a few paces ahead of him. “Puppet-boy, mock-boy, bah. Doesn’t matter, really. He’s a clever little manikin, but not much else. Maybe he won’t be so hollow when he grows older.”

Alonso swallowed painfully to ease his dry mouth, and busied himself with surveying the haphazard village below them. Of the two of them, he’d been the one who’d been unsettled by the boy, and yet an odd need to _defend_ him against Baltasar’s statements churned within his stomach. Defend him from what? And why? He shivered, tugging the large cuffs of his coat further down his arms.

“Do you…do you believe that?” he asked, meeting Baltasar’s gaze with some hesitation. “That he’ll eventually…I mean, that he’s…that…”

Baltasar spared Alonso from his usual waggishness – he did not give Alonso the lackadaisical grin or _oho_ that Alonso had been half-expecting. Instead, he shoved his free hand into his coat pocket and sighed.

“We can only hope.”

Wholly unnerved at his friend’s uncharacteristic restraint, Alonso moved forward to stand by his side, at a loss for what to say or do.

But Baltasar was not. He cracked a smile and patted Alonso on the shoulder, prompting him to resume their trek down the hill.

“I appreciate your faith in me, but I don’t have all the answers! That must come as a great shock, I know, but I’m afraid it’s the truth.”

Alonso scoffed good-naturedly, more relieved than indignant than he would ever care to admit.

“But I tell you, Alonso – he endured a living hell for God knows how long. I doubt there’s a man alive who could retain his soul after all that – no, not even I. Not if I were in his place. Can you imagine? I’d live my life as Baltasar the Husk.”

Baltasar let out a barking, bitter laugh.

“Or maybe I’d just go mad.”

❖

The boy – no, _Elmer_ sat upon his bed with his hands folded in his lap and his legs off the side. He’d sat there, unmoving, ever since the soldier and his friend had made their hasty departure some time ago. Silence overwhelmed the room and settled on his shoulders like a blanket, neither welcome nor unwelcome.

He sat, still and placid and utterly vacuous. Something within him – some void, some yawning chasm ached with a craving hunger he did not understand. Catalina did not come knocking at his door, so he sat. Ana did not weep outside his door, so he sat.

He sat, and Baltasar’s booming laugh rang in his ears.

Still looking down at his clasped hands, he focused on the memory and took a great deep breath, and –

– a wheezing puff of air escaped him, raspy and fleeting.

He furrowed his brow and took an even greater breath, but the air he expelled was just as reedy as the first.

Every subsequent attempt produced similar results. No matter how much he puffed out his chest, no matter how large the breath was – no matter what he did, he could not produce the same rich warmth that had been Baltasar’s laugh. He could not laugh at all.

He wanted to.

He _wanted_ to.

He wanted, and he couldn’t. He lapsed back into silence again.

It was laughter that next broke the silence – but it wasn’t Baltasar’s hearty guffaw, nor was it Sister Ana’s soft giggle. _This_ laughter was high-pitched and gasping, and it was coming from the _outside_.

Elmer scrambled for the window, standing upon his bed to look out into the world. Two girls and two boys ran through the dead grass in the distant meadow, hooting at each other with mirthful abandon.

He _wanted_.

The wall was thick, but he reached out and managed to grab onto the other side of the sill with the ends of his fingers. With every ounce of his strength, he hoisted himself up and squeezed his upper body through the narrow opening. It was a good thing that his village had starved him toward the end, he thought – he’d been gaining weight since he was found, but he was still _just_ scrawny enough to fit through the window.

Elmer shimmied his way through inch by inch until he finally tumbled out and down onto the ground, earning him a sore left shoulder and hip in the fall. That wasn’t important, though, and he sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the children as best he could.

“Hey! Stop! Hey!”

Each of the children came to a halt at his cries, and once Elmer came to a gasping halt in front of them, the eldest boy stepped forward to greet him. He looked to be around Elmer’s age, but that was where their similarities ended. The boy’s freckled swarthy skin and curly black hair sharply contrasted with Elmer’s own sickly white and straight blond, and the strong square of his shoulders and calloused hands suggested a strength earned through physical labor.

Behind the boy stood two younger girls, perhaps around five and eight years of age. The older of the two had her hair in braids and her headscarf clutched in one hand, while the younger’s hair was short and wind-tangled, her gown covered in grass straws and dirt stains. They stared at Elmer with wide, curious eyes; the younger boy next to them stared too, but his dark gaze was more shy than inquiring, more reserved than open.

( _Shy_ was a guess. _Shyness_ was something he’d been _taught_ , one of many odd concepts Catalina had explained to him. It was something he’d been taught but didn’t fully understand, along with concepts like _modesty_ , _embarrassment_ , and _shame_. For all he knew, the boy wasn’t shy at all.)

“Hello,” panted Elmer, hands on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Elmer.”

His greeting was likely a little too stiff, but probably understandable – even through his accent. At least, he hoped so.

The boy nodded slowly, and placed a hand on his chest. “Joaquin,” he replied, and pointed to the two girls. “Isabel and Leonor.” To the boy. “Toli.”

Having recovered somewhat, Elmer straightened his back and pressed his palms together imploringly. “Can I…” He faltered, fumbling for a word. “…go with you? To be with you? Can I?”

“You want to play?” _Oh, is that the word?_ The boy eyed him with acute doubt, and Elmer nodded.

“I’m well, I’m well! Can I, please?”

The boys shared a glance, and then looked back towards the girls. Leonor smiled politely, and Joaquin shrugged at Elmer.

“All right.”

Little Isabel stomped her feet impatiently. “It’s Toli, it’s Toli,” she chanted, and with one happy shriek she tore off across the field, hitching up her gown with both hands. Leonor quickly adjusted her kirtle and did the same.

Joaquin took off in a blur of wind and cloth. “Come on, go go go!” he hollered, and Elmer followed in his footsteps, ignoring the throbbing of his shoulder and creaking of his hip, complaints of sore muscles ill-used to the exercise. He ignored it all and _ran_ , though he didn’t know the _why_ or _where_ or _what next_.

Something jabbed at his right shoulder blade, and it flared with pain – pain that Elmer hadn’t _expected_ , and he stumbled to a halt to process it.

“Got you!”

Elmer turned and found Toli grinning at him. Toli-the-potentially-shy, Toli who’d seemed so reserved earlier – Toli, cheeks now flushed with pride and eyes now filled with triumph.

Pinpricks of pain continued to sizzle across Elmer’s back, and he sucked in a sharp breath, hand jerking reflexively to his right shoulder. The smile faded from Toli’s face.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Nononono,” Elmer lied. _No don’t stop smiling please_. “I don’t know what I do now?”

The boy blinked. “You chase us.” _Chase?_ “Like I did. You go and…” He gently took Elmer’s hand and bumped it against his chest. “…Like that. Then that person chases everyone. You see?”

Elmer saw. At least, he was pretty sure he did. He tapped Toli on the nose.

“Got you!”

Toli shook his head, smiling once more. “No,” he said, and in one swift movement he’d poked Elmer in the arm and charged off in the direction of the other children, who’d stopped when they realized that neither Toli nor Elmer were moving. “Go, go, go!”

Something in Elmer’s chest loosened.

He _ran._

His back and muscles burned, his hip screamed murder every time his left foot struck dirt, but his heart beat faster than it ever had before and the world blurred around him, he with unfamiliar energy singing through his veins, chest heaving for breath after gulping breath. _There_ was Isabel’s high-pitched giggle to his left, and _there_ was Joaquin laughing on his right, and Elmer _wanted_ and he opened his mouth to try again.

“Ha – haha!”

Was this laughter? Was he laughing? His abdomen had tightened, and he focused on that, focused on the way the muscle had contracted with each sound.

“Ha ha ha!”

Each _ha_ was deliberate – _this is what laughter sounds like, right?_ – each spasm of his abdomen was now on purpose, but it was getting easier now to follow each laugh with another one until they rushed out of him, panting and breathless and he fell to his knees and hands, shoulders shaking as he coughed for want of air. His stomach ached with each choking gasp, but _he’d done it_ , he’d _laughed_ , and now the question was whether or not he could do it _again_.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

Elmer looked up and saw Joaquin staring down at him, his voice taut with alarm.

“I’m well,” he rasped. “I’m just…” _Just…_ “…Happy.”

Joaquin sat down beside him. The other three children joined them on the ground for a short rest, something that Elmer had to admit he probably needed.

Their game eventually resumed with everyone in high spirits, and Elmer was pleased to find that he _could_ laugh again – it came to him easier than before, and soon enough the only thing that distinguished his laugh from the others’ was that their laughter was genuine.

Then Isabel fell and hurt her knee, and everyone’s fun came to an abrupt end.

The field was muddy – that was how she’d slipped, and no one had noticed until she started crying. Leonor and Elmer were the first to reach her, and the older girl crouched down in front of Isabel to console her. “There, there, Isa, it’s all right now, don’t cry…”

But Isabel _wouldn’t_ stop crying, not even when Joaquin and Toli joined them. Elmer crossed his arms with growing impatience.

“Can’t you stop crying yet?” he grumbled in English, and though the others couldn’t understand him they must have heard something in his tone, for apprehension filled Leonor’s face. “You’ve ruined everyone’s fun. They were all smiling.”

Isabel continued to sniffle. Elmer squared his jaw and stepped forward insistently. “Stop it,” he demanded, in Spanish. “Stop it already.”

Joaquin snapped a warning at him that he ignored completely. Isabel blinked back tears as she looked up at Elmer, and he met her gaze and held it.

“Hurry up and _smile_ ,” he said, and he hooked two fingers in the corners of his mouth and pulled his lips back. “Smile!”  

Isabel wiped at her tears, but her mouth remained set in a miserable frown.

“Smile and be happy! Do it do it dooo it,” Elmer urged, more than ready for her to finally get over herself and lessen his own hazy discomfort. He hopped from one foot to another, chanting the word _smile_ over and over right up until he misjudged and fell face-forward into the same swampy mud that had done in Isabel.

He lifted his head out of the muck, wiping some of the cold, gunky mud away from his eyes – which he opened immediately at the sound of a wet giggle from Isabel.  

_Hm._

Elmer made a show of carefully getting to his feet – and deliberately fell into the mud again, landing on his bad shoulder. But what did that matter – the watery smile on the girl’s face was worth the pain pulsing in his shoulder and hip, and so was the smile cracking across Toli’s face, and yes – yes, he really would endure just about anything for the sake of their smiles, wouldn’t he? He would, because he wanted – he _wanted_ –

No, he _hungered_ –

He _thirsted_ –

 _Craved_ –

He –

He smiled, but he didn’t. There was already a smile on his face anyway, except there wasn’t. Not a genuine one – not a genuine one, he was sure of it and he _wantedhungeredcraved_ thought it must be wonderful to smile like Toli and laugh like Baltasar. Leonor chuckled to his right and he answered with hollow laughter of his own, basking in a happiness that he could not experience.

Perhaps he never would.

 

 

 

**November 1711**

**Saturday, 4:30 PM**

Open waters at last. 

They were free.

Huzzah.

…

“I said, _huzzah!_ Say it with me, now! _One, two –_ ”

_“Huzzah!”_

This time, the crowd of alchemists humored him, and Elmer – clinging to the riggings with one fist held high up into in the air in victory – looked down at his fellow alchemists in satisfaction as they cheered on the deck below.

Good. It was certainly time for a celebration. Everyone had been far too tense as of late, though Elmer supposed it couldn’t be helped. The fear of pursuers had hung heavy over the ship ever since they’d made their hasty escape from Lotto Valentino’s harbor some several days ago.

The first signs of relief came when they escaped the Tyrrhenian Sea; the shoulders of the alchemists relaxed incrementally when they reached the Balearic, and the first smiles cropped up in the Alboran. When they’d restocked in the Strait of Gibraltar, at Majeedah Batutah’s final port stop off of Tarifa, those smiles became  _laughter_.

Now the Spanish coast was finally behind them, and the alchemists threw their hats into the air and roared as if they had been given a new lease on life (which they would, if everything went to plan).  Elmer made sure to note the reactions of every person he could see, and commit them to memory.

Szilard and Victor were their usual scowling disappointments, but beside them Gretto and Sylvie were holding each other so tight Elmer thought one of them was bound to burst. Nearby, Begg picked up little Czes (the boy might have been ten, but he was small for his age, and wholly innocent) and lifted him into the air. Elmer could hear Czeslaw laughing even from up on the rigging, and that alone was enough to make up for the two scowl-pokes.

In the middle of the crowd, Pierro and Italo shook each other’s hands with vigor, and both immediately turned to shake the hands of the alchemists standing on either side of them. But Nile and Denkurō – where were they? Ah. Probably the captain’s quarters. The two had retired there late the night before to hammer out ship maintenance assignments, or something along those lines.

(There had been a group argument over who should occupy the captain’s quarters back in the Tyrrhenian – some said Sylvie should occupy them as the only woman, others said Szilard on account of his age, and when all eyes turned to Maiza he had declined forcefully and suggested that they use the cabin for storage and meeting purposes instead.)

The sound of laughter drew Elmer’s attention. It had only been a single laugh, but it had been clear and piercing in its sincerity. Elmer flicked his gaze back over the crowd, skimming over Fritz and Armand to settle on Maiza, standing a little ways separate from the others. He looked more at ease than he had in several days, which Elmer was glad to see.

With such a rich commodity of jubilation to feast upon, Elmer almost didn’t spot the game of artifice taking place between Fermet and Huey at the guardrail until the rustling glint of blue fabric caught his attention, shimmering bright among the more inconspicuous muted greens and browns that many of the others sported.  

Huey leant with his back and forearms against the guardrail a little distance away from Maiza, his head tilted ever so slightly towards the rest of the alchemists. Fermet too leant against the guardrail – only he faced forward, with his elbows supporting his weight. _He_ stood a great deal distance separate from Huey and the others, his head turned toward the horizon as if transfixed by their newfound freedom.

Elmer knew better, of course.

He knew better than to believe that Huey’s attention was actually concentrated on the celebrating, and he knew better than to assume that Fermet’s thoughts lingered on the horizon and their promised future. Even without a spyglass, it was more than obvious that they were acutely aware of each other’s presence, eyeing each other without eyeing each other.

 _Hm._ He could… _not_ interfere with all the insouciant duplicity going on, but the longer Huey deliberately exposed himself to Fermet the less and less he’d be able or willing to entreat with the others in merrymaking tonight, so…

“Huuuuueeeyy,” Elmer called, waving at him enough gusto that his feet slipped off the rope and he found himself flailing mid-air gripping the rigging with one hand for dear life.

“Careful, Elmer!” shouted Zank, from where he stood at the helm. “You’re not immortal yet!”

Zank’s comment elicited another round of merry laughter from the crowd, and Elmer cackled right along with them even as he scrambled to find his footing. Despite being preoccupied with not plummeting to his death, Elmer didn’t miss the way Huey failed to laugh along with the others – in fact, his face seemed a shade paler than it had been before Elmer slipped.

Elmer decided to sway in the salt-tinged wind a few moments longer (anything to prolong a laugh), but finally figured it would be best to descend to safety before he really _did_ plummet to his death. Friendly claps to his back greeted him upon his return to the deck, and at the helm Zank rolled back his shoulders, cracked his neck and shouted promises to sing folksongs alongside Elmer tonight and drink together until neither of them could see straight.

“AhElmer. Czeswantedtosayhelloafterseeingyouupthere. Alltheexcitementhasexcitedhimyousee. He’sbeenenjoyinghimselfthoroughly. ThoughImust. Warnyou. Notto. Setabadexampleforhim. Withyourdangerousstunts.”

Elmer looked to his left to see Begg pushing his way through the crowd, and he immediately ignored him for little Czes, whom Begg held firmly by the hand. The boy offered him a shy smile (yes – yes, it was definitely shy), and mumbled compliments towards Elmer under his breath.

“ThoughIhavetosay. Itwasgoodforhim. Hewassoscaredyouknow. Seeingeveryoneingoodspiritshashelped. Sothankyou.”

Elmer finally afforded Begg his attention, now that the other man wore a brittle smile. With a chuckle, he replied, “That’s great news! The more fears I can ease, the better.”

“I must agree with Czes. It was a truly _inspiring_ delivery.”

“Thanks!” Elmer beamed at Fermet, who’d emerged from the throng behind Begg and Czes with nary a sound. “Does that mean I made _you_ smile too?”

Fermet pressed a contemplative finger to his lips, relaxing his shoulders as he thought. With a tilt of his head, he asked, “I hope you’ll forgive my impudence, but I must ask – does it honestly matter whether or not I smiled? After all…even if I did, you were not there to see it in person.”

That was a fair question, and it had an easy answer. “Sure it does!” exclaimed Elmer. “Just knowing that someone smiled can brighten my day. But if you’re that concerned, why don’t you show me a smile now to make up for it?”

The corners of Fermet’s mouth drooped, ever so slightly. “…Hm.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be for me, you know. I’ll settle for seeing you smile at something else instead. My feelings won’t be hurt, promise.”

After a moment Fermet looked down at Czes, and Elmer was gratified to see a fond smile spread across his face. Fermet placed his right hand on Begg’s left shoulder, and with his left hand he gently ruffled Czes’ hair.

“I’m pleased I had the chance to speak with you, but I think it’s time for the three of us to return to our quarters and prepare a bath for Czes. We want him to look his best tonight, you see.”

Elmer nodded. “Oh. All right. Have fun, Czes!”

Czes ducked his head, and he and his guardians said their goodbyes before disappearing into the crowd. Elmer didn’t bother to watch their departure; already his mind was on Nile and Denkurō, whose smiles he still had yet to see. So, he maneuvered his way past Italo and toward the captain’s quarters – only to stop when he crossed paths with Huey.

Huey’s gaze trailed after Fermet and Begg, and then focused briefly on Elmer’s face.

“Be more careful,” he murmured absently, and continued on his way.

Elmer grinned and called out, “thanks! I won’t!” to Huey’s back before resuming his course for the captain’s cabin. He paused at the door at the sound of raised voices from within, and then let himself into the room without knocking. Inside, he found Denkurō leaning over the central desk with both hands on its surface for support. Spread out between his hands were a large map and several papers with writing on them in languages Elmer didn’t know.

Denkurō didn’t acknowledge his presence – which was fairly unusual for him, but understandable given that he was arguing passionately with Nile.

In English.

How _handy_.

“This one believes that you are in the _wrong_ , Master Nile.”

Nile – who stood to Denkurō’s right – folded his arms, his face darkened with formidable irritation.

“I say this. Tonight’s frivolity matters not to me – _she_ provided us with ample provisions to excuse a little feasting. But the sooner the ritual is held the easier our voyage will become.”

Denkurō shook his head. “Master Maiza has his reasons for holding off the ceremony, and we must respect his wishes.”

“If Maiza is as wise as the others believe him to be, he will agree with me.”

Elmer coughed loudly, and Denkurō jerked his head up at the noise.

“Master Elmer!” Denkurō collected the documents into a stack and shoved them inside one of the desk’s drawers. “This one apologizes for not noticing your presence. It was most rude of this one to do so.”

“Don’t worry about it,” replied Elmer. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about hiding whatever those papers are! Can’t read a scrap of them.”

Light red embarrassment crept up Denkurō’s cheeks, and he glanced at Nile out of the corners of his eyes. “They are from our Honored Master, who has entrusted certain…tasks unto our care once we arrive in the colonies. This one implores you to think nothing of them.”

“Sure!” Truth be told, Elmer _was_ curious about whatever Denkurō wanted to hide from him, but there were clearly more pressing matters to deal with here. “Now, what’s gotten you two so out of sorts? You should have been out cheering and smiling with everybody else!”

Nile clucked his tongue. “I argue this. Would it not be rational to hold the summoning as soon as possible? Immortals do not have to worry about mortal matters such as starvation, or drowning. If we suffered damage in a storm and lost our victuals, we would undoubtedly still be secure in our immortality. Just think – the normal dangers of seeing to the rigging would vanish in an instant.”

“Master Maiza has already made up his mind,” Denkurō repeated. “And this one posits that even if we could not die forever from starvation, we might still _die_. How can we know for sure that such a temporary death is not still possible?”

Nile glowered, and uncrossed his arms so that he could reach for his impressively sized knife hanging from his belt.

“Denkurō, at times you are intolerable. I would—”

“—Forget all about it, make up and smile like old friends?”

Nile turned the full weight of his mighty glower toward Elmer, who held up his hands placatingly. “Look, I’m not about to say you’re wrong or anything. But it’s early days yet, and everyone’s in a good mood, so – if you want to make your case to Maiza, can you do me a favor and not ask him about it tonight? Come join the party and take your mind off things!”

Denkurō nodded along as Elmer spoke, and once he’d finished speaking spoke in turn. “This one agrees with Master Elmer. Ask him tomorrow, or the day after, but not tonight.”

Nile _tched_ and looked away. “I say this. Fine. I will do as you say, but I am too busy to attend tonight’s feast. The tackle needs to be checked, the hull must be inspected for cracks, and the deck must be swabbed. Someone must stay at the helm through the night, and Zank has already manned the wheel for hours. And I ask you this – who will agree to be our night watch?”

“Ooh! That’ll be me!”

Both men turned to look at Elmer.

Elmer continued. “You two were in here last night discussing crew work, right? Well, go on and pick me for the regular night watch. I would be a great lookout!”

“This one hopes that this one is not overstepping, but this one thought _you_ were the one who was looking forward to tonight the most.”

Elmer’s grin turned sheepish, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, that’s true. Can’t deny it. What should I do?”

“I’ll take tonight’s watch.”

_Huey?_

Elmer turned around to see Huey standing in the doorway. Huey offered him and the others a bland smile, and said, “please, allow me. I was intending to spend the night in solitude already, so you would not be imposing in the slightest.”

“Aw, really, Huey? You don’t mind? Thanks!”

Denkurō followed. “You too have this one’s thanks. This one shall assist Master Nile with ship maintenance as well, so this one will not be able to attend the feast in full tonight either. This one hopes you do not take offense, Master Elmer.”

“Nope! But make sure to stay long enough so that I can see you smile,” Elmer said, looking back at them. “Wow, I guess it really is a lot of work, living on a ship. Guess you’ll get us all working hard soon enough.”

“That is so, Master Elmer,” replied Denkurō. “That is so.”

❖

The feast that night consisted of the same fare they typically ate aboard the ship – salt pork, cheese, kidney beans, hardtack – but they called it a feast all the same, for their portions were slightly bigger than they typically were, and the alcohol slightly less watered down. Zank made it very clear that _no_ , there would be no seconds on the food, especially since he and Maiza had already taken inventory of all the food and drink the company would consume tonight.

“Spoilsport,” grumbled Victor, into his cup. “I thought you were a fairly amiable bloke, and here you are limiting my ale.”

Zank flashed him a blinding grin in response. “Just because I can be amiable does not mean I am irresponsible, my friend. Maiza is well read when it comes to matters of accountancy, and he has already determined how lenient our stocks may be for tonight. If you have qualms, speak with him.”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of fucking qualms,” retorted Victor. “Namely how water keeps leaking into the hull and wetting the back of my shirt. I thought this was supposed to be a top of the line ship.”

“It is,” interjected Maiza, who sat across from Gretto and Sylvie at the middle table. “It is extremely fast – we should make good time across the ocean, provided that storms do not delay us untowardly.”

“Leaks? That’s no good – I’ll get to fixing it.”

Zank stood and left the mess hall. An older gentleman (whose name Elmer did not remember) rose as he passed, and raised his stein up in the air with one hand and his pince-nez in the other. His peruke had gone slightly askew with the movement, and his cheeks were already ruddy from drink. He hiccupped, and warbled in heavily German-accented Italian, “I propose a toast! I want to propose a toast!”

“You already proposed a toast!” cried out an Arabic man sitting two seats down from Elmer. _Hisham al-Basir, was that his name? I think it was._ It wasn’t an objection – more like a jovial observation, if anything.

“I am wanting to propose another one! _Ach, du meine Güte_ …” The alchemist took a lengthy sip from his stein, composed himself, and continued. “Yes, a toast to all of us, to our future eternal health! _Hurra_ , _sei guten Mutes_ , _hurra_!”

It was word-for-word the same toast he’d given earlier, but no one seemed to mind. Several of the more light-hearted (or already tipsy) folks raised their cups, echoed, “to eternal health!” and knocked their glasses together.

“Hurrah, hurrah!” Elmer cheered, draining his ale in two large gulps. “To your happiness!”

“To happiness!”

One of the doors to the mess hall opened, and Zank reemerged with several tools in one hand and a length of oakum in the other. After inspecting the hull for a good half minute, he set to work on sealing seams that Elmer couldn’t make out from where he was sitting.

“About time!” remarked Victor, dunking his hardtack into his ale. “Let’s not sink the ship before we reach the halfway point, hm?”

Across from Victor, Szilard snorted and set down his mug of wine. “Such insolent remarks from a stowaway.”

“Hey! Just a moment – my name was on that last-minute addition just like yours, you all saw it. So I have every right to be here just as much as the rest of you people.”

He shot Szilard a glare, snatching up his cup with an angry jerk of his hand.

“And I don’t want to hear any complaints from you, old man. You always cavil at every little last thing – our entire fucking travel to Lotto Valentino, you kept caviling right and left and made the journey pretty fucking miserable. In fact, I propose a toast! A toast to Szilard the Caviler, long may he reign.”

Victor raised his cup high into the air, his voice dripping with caustic venom. When nobody inclined to join in, he lowered his arm and said, “Anyway, sorry if I sounded a little high-and-mighty there, Zank. Thanks for patching the hull up.”

“Of course. And I hope you were paying attention while I was caulking those cracks,” Zank chortled. “After all, you’ll be doing the same thing over the course of this voyage.”

Victor grimaced, but nodded. “Yeah, that’s fair enough.”

“Um – Fermet wants to toast too!”

Czes’ soft announcement was lost in the din of general conversation, but Elmer picked up on it. He looked over to the windows, in front of which sat Czes, with Begg on his left and Fermet on his right. Fermet shook his head at the boy, murmuring, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly…”

“Go on, Fermet,” urged Maiza, who’d heard Czes’ announcement as well. “Don’t be so modest. I’m sure everyone wants to hear it.”

“ _Heraus mit der Sprache!_ We can’t hear, louder please!”

“Oh my… If you insist.” Fermet stood, clenching his mug in his right hand. Elmer picked up his own cup, stood, and rapped on it with his fork to catch everyone’s attention. Once the room settled down a little, Fermet began to speak.

“If I may be so bold, I’d first like to toast to Professor Dalton, the alchemist without whom this venture would be impossible.”

“Hear, hear!”

Fermet dipped his head, and continued. “I’d also like to acknowledge Nile and Denkurō, who so selflessly man the ship while we revel. And to our reliable Zank, of course. A toast to them.”

Zank led the audience in clapping, and Elmer chuckled into his cup.

“Speaking of absent friends, I would like to…” Fermet’s lips quivered and he covered his mouth and bowed his head, turning it slightly to the side. After a moment, he uncovered his face and raised his head to survey the crowd.

“Excuse me. I would like to spare a few words for Huey Laforet, whom as I understand it volunteered to take tonight’s lookout. He is still recovering from a most terrible tragedy, and I am sure he wanted desperately to avoid dampening the festivities with his own grief. I implore you to keep him in your thoughts tonight, if nothing else.”

The round of “hear, hear” was decidedly more sober than the first one had been, and Fermet gave the crowd a sad, pained smile – which turned gentle when he gazed down at Czes.

“Finally, I would have everyone acknowledge just how brave Czes has been thus far. The more time I spend with him upon the _Advena Avis_ , the more I am convinced he is the most courageous out of all of us.” He raised his cup high into the air. “To Czes.”

“To Czes!” The alchemists whistled and pounded the tables and stomped their feet in rhythmic succession. Czes blushed deep red, looking upward at Fermet in awe.

Zank joined Elmer on the bench and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, pouring half the ale in his cup into Elmer’s empty one. “A good folksong will really get the feast going!” Elmer laughed, and the two of them clinked their cups together; seconds later, Zank burst out into a rousing folksong from his homeland, and Elmer copied him as best he could.

The rest of the night was spent in song and light-hearted discussion, and briefly dance when Elmer attempted to demonstrate a hornpipe dance he’d once learned from a stranded English sailor – he made it a good thirty seconds in before nearly bowling over a very tipsy Fritz (who’d attempted to join in). Ten minutes later, Gretto accidentally let it slip that Sylvie had a very nice singing voice, and after some persistent cajoling from the men, Sylvie sang an Italian folksong in a high, quavering voice to raucous applause.

It was only when the party was winding down did Denkurō finally enter the mess hall, squeezing past Armand heading back to his cabin with a sagging Fritz in tow. Begg and Fermet had already retired early to their cabin with Czes asleep over Begg’s shoulder, and several more alchemists followed Czes’ lead – dozing in their seats, empty cups tipped over onto their side. Gretto and Sylvie danced together in the aisle – slow and tender, with Sylvie’s head resting upon Gretto’s chest.

“Master Nile decided to take over the night watch,” Denkurō said quietly, nodding at Elmer and Maiza. “This one hopes you forgive his absence tonight. This one also cannot stay for long – this one must return to the wheel immediately.”

“Of course,” murmured Maiza, who was probably more sober than a good eighty percent of the alchemists. “I’ll be sure to thank him tomorrow.”

 

Content enough with the smiles he’d seen over the course of the party, Elmer excused himself and stumbled his way back to the cabin he shared with Huey, rocking from side to side more than the boat itself. He still had enough sense to open the door quietly, and upon doing so he spotted Huey in the far bed, curled up on his side and facing the wall. The regular rise and fall of his chest indicated sleep, but just to be sure, Elmer tiptoed over to his bed.

“Huey?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

There was no response. Elmer leant at a steep angle over Huey, and saw stress lines contorting his expression.

Elmer _frowned_ , but deigned not to wake his cabin mate – instead, he retired to his own bed, and folded his arms under his head. Closing his eyes, he mumbled:

“Sweet dreams.”

❖

In the days following the massacre, death wormed its way into the hearts of its immortal passengers.

It seeped into the woodwork and into the metal; it clung to every exhaled breath and too-loud footstep. Every floorboard creak and howl of wind ached death throes and funeral bells, while meals turned to ash with every bite and liquid to mercury with every sip.

None of the others could bear to pick up the strewn clothes, at first. It was a bizarre thing to walk through the ship and come across a full set of clothing in a corridor, in a doorway, tucked away under an alcove. They were stories; they were gravestones. Maiza avoided his room completely, unable to bear the sight of his brother’s clothes still laid atop his bed.

Elmer still recalled with perfect clarity how Fritz – wild and red-eyed – had grabbed Victor’s shirt and slammed him against the wall in the hours following the massacre, sobbing, “You! You _knew_ him, you worked together – how could you have let this happen? It’s all your fault!”

Victor had put his hands on Fritz’s shoulders, looking down upon him with tired, resigned eyes. “I won’t deny that I wasn’t completely shocked by what happened. Szilard was one hell of a goddamn greedy bastard. But I didn’t expect he’d go and – that he’d – that – goddammit, I’m _so_ _fucking sorry_ it happened, Fritz. You’re my friend, and I – I – _fuck._ ” He swiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist, and continued. “I also won’t deny that I didn’t know everyone all that well, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _care._ ”

“Fritz! Fritz!”

Armand skidded around the corner, nearly knocking into Elmer (who’d been eavesdropping at the intersection) - and when he saw Victor gripping Fritz’s shoulders his hands curled into fists.

“Hold it!” hissed Elmer, seizing Armand’s arm. “It’s not what you think!”

“Armand?” Fritz swiveled his head round to look at the two of them, at the end of the hallway. “What are you doing?”

Armand shook his arm free of Elmer’s grasp. “When I couldn’t find you, I thought…” He eyed Victor, and then shook his head at Fritz. “What matters is that you’re safe. Come on – let’s go.”

Try as he might, Elmer had been unable to get Victor’s desolate expression out of his head for the next two days, and it was that same incident he now mulled over in his head, descending the stairs into the lower deck. _How can I get them to smile under these circumstances?_ Goodness knows, he’d been _trying_ to do just that – incessantly talking of an optimistic future at meal times (though the others tended to retreat into their own rooms for meals, these days) and rattling off tongue-twisters and jokes to those nearby. Nothing _worked_ , and the choking ache of misery that stubbornly continued to _persist_ was really starting to get on Elmer’s nerves.

“Oi, Elmer.”

Victor – from where he leant against the largest round column – temporarily uncrossed his arms to raise his right hand in greeting. Next to him, Nile and Begg greeted Elmer by way of sober nods.

Elmer flashed a bright smile at them in return, stepping past Pierre’s clothes – which had been kicked to the wall in the commotion of the massacre and since forgotten. When he came to stand at Begg’s left side, he winked at his Dormentaire associate and said, in English, “Hi, all! Looks like I’ve interrupted some hush-hush conversation I shouldn’t be in the know about?” He added, “what’s going on?” in Italian for Begg’s benefit.

Nile shook his head. “It is like this. Something ought to be done about the clothing of our fallen brethren. We must pay their deaths the respect they deserve.”

“Not to mention…” Victor wet his lips. “…It’s not exactly easy to walk the ship with – with them there.”

“Czeskeepsaskingme ‘wheredidtheygo’ wheneverhecomesacrosstheclothes. Heissolost. Iaminagreementwiththeothers. Somethingmustbedone.”

Elmer stroked his chin. “I see. That makes sense – seeing those clothes lying around the ship probably _would_ hurt some people, wouldn’t it? Rip the wound open anew, so to speak? That’s definitely not something anyone wants. So what’s the plan?”

Victor shrugged half-heartedly, his gaze flicking between Begg and Nile. “I guess we oughta call a meeting first – probably shouldn’t move the clothes without the others’ permission. From there, we should have a majority decision on what to… _do_ with them.”

“Sounds fine to me!” Elmer pushed up his sleeves and rubbed his hands together. “Well, let’s get started! The sooner everyone can start smiling again, the better."

 

The four of them went knocking on cabin doors, and soon enough everyone – with the exception of Nile (who went to take over helm duty) and Begg (who elected to take over the watch) – gathered in the mess hall. It was the largest congregation the mess hall had seen since before the massacre, and Elmer didn’t miss how quite a few of the others kept their backs pressed against the walls and kept large empty spaces between them and the others, stiff with paranoia.

Not all of them, though; Maiza sat at the middle table, slumped forward with his hands clasped between his legs, burning a hole through the floor with his stare. Elmer and Huey sat near him, and when Victor entered he looked around the room, swallowed, and did the same. The only two immortals that chose to stand were Denkurō and Zank, each in a separate aisle.

Unspoken tension clogged the air, and various wary eyes glanced over at Maiza and away again – yet he made no inclination towards speech. Victor cast Elmer an uncomfortable look, fingers tapping restlessly on his knee.

It was Zank who finally made the first move. “Friends, we all thank you for agreeing to this meeting. The time has come for us to discuss what should be done with the remains of our fallen brethren – we can no longer let them lie strewn about the ship as they are now.”

 _Remains?_ _That’s a funny choice of words._

Again, glances flickered toward Maiza – but he remained immobile. One had to wonder if the man was even listening to the conversation.

“You’re implying there are choices,” said Armand, his tone either a touch dry or a touch bitter. This was another distinction Elmer sometimes had trouble with. “You’re implying that there’s an _either or_.”

“No,” countered Zank. “Not if that isn’t the consensus.”

Armand scoffed, splaying his hands out in a wide, unhappy gesture. “Shall I guess some potentials, then? Let’s see. _Either_ we give their sartorial remains a sea burial as a unanimous token of respect, _or_ we all go the practical route and harvest what they’ve left behind for our benefit? An extra coat for Laforet, better boots for Garott, more cloth for Miss Lumiere when she repairs the clothes upon our backs?

“Ah, but perhaps there’s a third option – a free-for-all, in which we all individually find the clothing of those who we were closest to and make our own judgments on what is to be done with them. Or perhaps not?”

Zank sighed. “All of these are options. We must decide on one of them.”

“A ceremony – yes, a burial ceremony.” The German had spoken up, from where he sat with his back to the hull. “To send them off with honor, the proper way.”

“There _are_ practical considerations to consider too,” responded Armand, shifting forward in his seat. “We are at sea, and one might argue that it would be a drastic waste to cast them overboard.”

The German stood, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “How dare you! Selfish like I never saw, such rudeness to them!”

“I am only _saying_ —”

“ _I_ care not what you say, _I_ say—”

“If you all would just—”

“Please!”

The hall fell silent – and all eyes went toward Maiza, who had gotten to his feet at last.

“Please,” he said, his voice ragged and cracked with grief, “my brother is _dead._ ”

He left the mess hall without another word.

Elmer spared Sylvie a moment’s notice, wondering if she would need comforting. She sat taut on the bench, gripping its edge with both her hands – and with dark, cold hatred twisting her face into something nearly unrecognizable. No – no, she did not need comforting, though Fritz shifted over on the bench and put a hand on her shoulder anyway.

Elmer set his jaw and followed after Maiza. He eventually found the other man on the deck, staring up at Begg on the lookout platform. Elmer shivered a little at the crisp wind, but Maiza appeared not to notice the cold.

“Maiza?”

Maiza tilted his head to the side as Elmer joined him. “Elmer. May I request a favor from you?”

“Of course! Anything.”  

“Thank you.” Maiza nodded, his raw anguish from earlier now replaced with a sharp weariness that made him seem...smaller, somehow. “I would like to take tonight’s watch, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The answer required no consideration. “Not at all. Is there anything else that—”

“No.” Maiza winced at his own brusqueness, and shook his head – more at himself than at Elmer. “No, there is not.”

❖

The next day, Elmer asked Maiza at the end of dinner whether he wanted to take over the night watch again.

(He didn’t ask what he and Sylvie planned to do with Gretto’s clothes.)

(He didn’t ask whether or not Maiza had smiled while looking at the stars.)

(He didn’t.)

Maiza pushed away his plate. “No, go on ahead. I must thank you again for agreeing to the switch – I know how much you enjoy the watch.”

“I’m just glad I could help,” replied Elmer, as he swung his legs over the bench. “Well, I guess I might as well make an early start of it. Are you turning in?”

Maiza stiffened, and then relaxed minutely. “Ah – I slept earlier. I may stroll the deck tonight to try and clear my head.”

“Oh? Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you, then!”

He paused at the door to wave goodbye to Maiza and the sparse few others who’d ventured out to the mess hall – Armand, Denkurō, Nile, and Victor – before exiting and heading for the stairs. The same stiff breeze from yesterday greeted him once he emerged onto the uppermost deck. _Guess I’m in for a chilly night._

Elmer made quick work of the upwards climb via the ratlines, but slowed at the futtock shrouds. The angle required him to maneuver with his back leaning backwards over the rest of the ship at an angle of about forty-five degrees, and he was glad that at least the ropes weren’t slick with water from the evening mist. It didn’t help that the spyglass he’d nicked from the captain’s quarters slapped at his thigh from where he’d hooked it at his waistband.

“Here, I’ve got you.”

Fritz leant carefully over the platform and extended his hand, which Elmer accepted gratefully. Once he was safely up and over, he wiped his brow and laughed, “Thanks! Those last few ropes are always tricky.”

Fritz nodded in agreement, but he seemed distracted as he bent to pick up his lantern – eyes looking elsewhere, lips pursed. Elmer frowned, but before he could inquire what was wrong Fritz straightened and turned to look at him full in the face.

“Elmer.”

Elmer was taken aback by the hardness of Fritz’s eyes, but he merely smiled and cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I will hunt him,” Fritz said, low and vehement. “I will find Szilard Quates and demand justice, I swear it.”

Such a promise was not one Elmer had expected from young, idealistic Fritz, and he looked at his younger compatriot from head to toe. Fritz stood with a wide, proud stance, holding his lantern up high - illuminating his flinty gaze and set jaw with a flickering yellow hue. In that very moment, Elmer felt sure that Fritz embodied the young, passionate university student that Jean had been so fond of incorporating into his plays and occasional short stories – a character who always had dreams of changing the world.

Elmer figured that Fritz was exactly the sort of person Jean would have romanticized, had he seen Fritz as he stood now. The question was - if Elmer were to act the Author in place of Jean, should he fuel the other’s dreams of justice and revenge and encourage him towards the hero’s role – or should he take the opposite route and warn him from such dangerous ambitions? _Let injustices stay injustices_ , he might warn. _Stay safe and smile for the life that you are lucky to still have._

Instead, he took the lantern from Fritz and nodded. “Well, I’m actually planning on searching for Szilard myself – though my plans for him are different from yours.”

“What? What do you mean?” Apprehension furrowed Fritz’s skin and whitened his knuckles, and Elmer chuckled abashedly in return.

“I don’t intend on seeing anything in the way of ‘justice’ done. I want to find the old man and convince him to repent his ways.”

“ _What?_ ” Fritz gaped at him, then recovered and snapped, “That’s a fool’s dream. He can’t be reasoned with. I saw him—” he shuddered “—I saw him devour Rutger, and his face was _ghoulish_ with pleasure. He will have his fill of us all if we are complacent.”

Elmer squared his shoulders. “And that’s why I’m going to find him and reason with him. I want you all to smile, but I want _him_ to smile too, and he’s not going to do much of that if he can’t catch you. And since I’m not about to give you up to him, this is the only way I can think of that has the tiniest chance of working. Don’t you see?”

“I can see that your plan _has_ no chance of working.” Fritz shook his head in disbelief. “I can also see that you’re ridiculous. Making that bastard _smile_? He deserves no happiness.”

“That may be so, but I still want to see his smile regardless.” Elmer shrugged, and clapped Fritz on the shoulder. “Well, I think you’d better head on down. Armand’s been waiting in the mess hall with a plate of food for you for a while now.”

Fritz closed his eyes and sighed heavily at that bit of news, and descended with a hasty thanks and good-bye.

Elmer reached for his spyglass and set to watching the moonrise.

 

Zank took over for Nile at the wheel after the first hour, which Elmer was glad for. Zank, at least, was usually receptive to Elmer shouting down jokes and puns at him. Nile...not so much.

Another hour went by, and Elmer passed the time by picturing all the goings on below deck: Sylvie finishing up the last patchwork on Begg’s coat by candlelight; Maiza and Denkurō likely reviewing inventory; Victor mixing paint for tomorrow’s paint jobs. The lantern (which he’d hung on a hook protruding from the lower mast) didn’t provide much in the way of warmth, so he settled for rubbing his arms and watching his breath float in the air in front of him.

Maiza emerged from the lower deck around the fourth hour mark, and Elmer observed him stroll around the deck through his spyglass for a couple minutes – handy thing, having a spyglass. Perhaps he wouldn’t return this one to the captain’s quarters after his shift ended.

The platform creaked behind him, and he turned his head to the left just enough to see Huey sitting down, leaning his back against the mast with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Oh, hullo,” said Elmer. “Fancy seeing you here. Want to look at the stars with me? I can’t get enough of them.”

Huey shook his head, his expression one of polite dismissal. “No, thank you.”

“That’s a shame. You ought to give it a go – it would be good for you.”

His cabin mate did not reply, and instead looked off at a horizon that was barely visible by the light of the moon and stars. Elmer shifted so that he was leaning with his back against the sole guardrail the platform had to offer.

“Couldn’t sleep again, huh? I know you’re really into the whole ‘stay awake until you literally can’t any longer’ mode, but you should go for a more regular sleep schedule. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so cranky.”

Huey shrugged impassively. “I am sure it would not change a thing.”

“Maybe.” Elmer looked upwards, taking in the starry sky that was still so marvelous compared to the polluted Lotto Valentinian one he’d had to tolerate for six years. “When I was with the Church, I did the same thing, sometimes. I’d stay awake for as long as I could…other times I’d sleep as often as I could. I tried a lot of things. Have I told you that already? Ah, but you’re not exactly a voluntary insomniac for the same reason.”

Huey still did not look at him, but his hands had twitched at the mention of the Church. Elmer pressed on, peeling off the guardrail to advance a few steps forward in Huey’s direction.

“Oh and before you ask – yes, I do intend to keep my promise. That’s why you came up here, right? You trust me so little. I’m hurt.”

 _Now_ Huey whipped his head over to look at him, off-guard. “No, that’s—” Huey paused, and resettled himself back into indifference. “I trust you more than anyone here. More than anyone else.”

Elmer sat down next to Huey, and slung a comfortable arm around his shoulders. Both of their backs pressed against the damp wood of the lower mast.

“You want to hear something funny? I’ve heard _you_ scream, but you’ve never heard _me_ scream.”

Huey’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and his shoulders tensed under Elmer’s arm. _Good_. Elmer knew – he’d been told over and over that he crossed lines, though he often had no idea where the lines even _were_ – he knew that he would be crossing a line. He’d anticipated it. He had opened his mouth with the express purpose of forcing Huey to recall a memory that could have never been anything else but taboo.

He thought he could see Monica’s smile reflected in Huey’s eyes.

“Would you _like_ to hear me scream? I bet you’re curious, deep down inside. Granted, it’s been a _long_ time, so I don’t know how to best go about it…”

Huey moved his lips, but produced no sound. Finally, he ground out, “No, Elmer. I do not…want to hear your scream.”

Elmer nodded, and he refrained from replying immediately – just to let a few moments of silence stretch between them. “I have to say, you were pretty short with me, before we boarded the _Advena Avis._ You asked me if I could promise not to ever change, for your sake – and I still have a lot of questions about that first part, by the way, but let’s put that aside for now – anyway, you were fairly quiet about _you_ changing, and I want to talk to you about that.”

Huey closed his eyes, and nodded as if to say _continue_. Elmer squeezed his left shoulder in response.

“You don’t have to say anything – let me do all the talking. It’s just that – well, when we reunited, I first thought you’d changed _completely_. It turns out I was wrong about that – you still have a long way to go, no matter what you might or might not think about yourself. But I don’t know how much of a change that is, and I’m betting you don’t know how much _too far_ is either. Am I wrong?”

Huey was on full alert now, for he’d straightened fully under Elmer’s arm, pressing his fists into his thighs. Elmer stood, and Huey stood with him.

“Well, I just might have an idea about that.”

He bent down, rolled his right trouser cuff upward, and retrieved one of Nile’s hunting knives from where he’d strapped it to his shin. Once Elmer straightened, he cradled it in both his hands and looked at Huey, whose attention was solely with the knife. When Huey registered that Elmer was looking at _him_ , he dragged his gaze upward to meet Elmer’s gaze.

Elmer offered the knife to him. “Stab me.”

Huey blanched, and instinctively stepped backward. “…No.”

Elmer moved the knife so that he was holding it horizontally, with his left hand holding its handle while he kept the sharp blade pointed at his own stomach. With his right hand, he gently guided Huey’s hands so that _they_ held the blade, and then covered Huey’s hands with his own. Huey did not resist – as if he were some uncomprehending child – and his gaze remained locked with Elmer’s.

“All right, Huey,” he said, and took a step backward, and then another. Huey moved with him as he talked.

“If you can someday – without anyone’s help, or interference – if you can someday of your own accord do _this_ —” and he _jerked_ Huey’s hands forward, the blade sinking into Elmer’s stomach with a familiar terrible chill. His breath hitched with pain as it sunk in further and deeper than any blade had ever pierced him before, and a choked, agonized moan escaped his lips.

He stepped backward and Huey moved with him, staring at him with wide, _vulnerable_ eyes, hands straining under Elmer’s as if he wanted nothing more to pull away.

“—If – if you can someday voluntarily do this to me and look upon my face without remorse—”

His right foot struck air. Metallic liquid constricted his throat, and he coughed blood. The searing pain of his gut wound begged for relief.

“—Then you’ll know that you’ve passed the point of no return.”

With Elmer’s last bit of strength, he released the knife and shoved Huey forward. Huey reached for him, but he toppled backward and fell over the edge of the platform.

He hurtled to the ground, the world passing by in muted colors, wind howling in his ears. Someone shouted his name, but he could not tell whether the sound came from above or below - and he lost himself to darkness.

❖

The two of them did not bring up the incident for the rest of the journey – Huey acted as if it had never happened, and if he didn’t want to talk about it, Elmer saw no reason to bring it up. In fact, their next true conversation did not occur until the last day of their voyage, when the North American shore was finally, _finally_ visible on the horizon on one unusually sunny Saturday morning.

Elmer and Victor took a break from polishing brass to stare at the approaching shoreline, and Fritz abandoned painting the rails to alert those on the lower deck to the news. Soon, the entirety of their group stood upon the deck to gawk at the sight. Begg hoisted Czes upon his shoulders so that he could better see, Fermet standing next to them with his hands gripping the guardrail. Many of the others did the same – but the mood was totally different from the jovial atmosphere from several weeks ago.

They _should_ have been celebrating – but in place of celebratory cheers and hat-throwing, most of the alchemists exchanged uneasy mutters, worry lines creasing their skin and bowing their backs. Elmer raised his spyglass to his eye and studied strips of yellow and green through it, and the brown of what he figured was a port town. He wondered if its inhabitants would smile at the sight of an unexpected ship making port, or if they’d be hostile right off the bat.

Someone joined him at his left side. Still peering at the coast through the spyglass, Elmer asked, “how long do you think it’ll take for Szilard to arrive after us? If he’s not already arrived, I mean.”

“I couldn’t say,” said Huey, and Elmer lowered his spyglass to look at him. “He may very well have been eaten by some great sea creature, for all we know.”

“That’s true!” Elmer snickered at the thought. “What if he’s been eaten by a shark? Or a whale? Or a sea serpent, or a kelpie, or a kraken, or—”

Huey smiled faintly. “Those last three don’t exist, Elmer.”

“You don’t know that for sure!” Elmer countered, full of humor. “After all, _we_ exist.”

The smile faded. “Yes,” murmured Huey, looking downward to the sea. “We do.”

“Hey, you two.” Victor sauntered up to them without his usual fanfaronade, hands shoved into his coat pockets and his shoulders hunched defensively. “What’re you planning on doing once we reach shore?”

Huey offered him a polite sort-of-smile, his left hand resting on the guardrail. “May I first ask what _you_ plan on doing, Victor?”

“Me? Fuck, I dunno.” Victor looked briefly toward the shore, then back again at them. He briefly withdrew his right hand from his pocket to rub the back of his neck. “I thought I’d wait in town until old man Szilard showed up, but shit – that bastard could really appear anywhere, couldn’t he? What’re the chances he’ll wash up at the same town? I guess I’m just going to have to book it with the rest of ‘em. Figure out how to make a living here in the meantime.”

He ground his teeth together, frustration contorting his expression. Shaking his head slightly, he refocused his attention back towards them. “Anyway, what about you?”

Huey gave Elmer an unreadable look, and Elmer chuckled and shrugged. “I’m probably going to stay in town for a few days. Good for us that we speak the local language, right? But that’s the plan as it stands now. Maybe do a little fishing. See if I can’t make the entire town smile before the week is out.”

“That’s…it? That’s…all you’ve got?”

“Pretty much?” Elmer rocked back on his heels and continued, “From then on, I’ll walk the land and continue making people smile while keeping an eye and ear out for Szilard. If you’re looking for some great big master plan, I can’t help you there.”

Victor stared at him blankly, then threw his hands up into the air and stomped away, muttering, “I _knew_ you wouldn’t be of any help, head in the goddamn clouds all the time…”

Elmer merely smiled at his compatriot’s retreating back, and turned to face Huey once more. “Well, _you_ know the plan, at any rate.”

Huey eyed him, and nodded – that faint smile of his playing at his lips.

Elmer gripped the guardrail with both hands, speaking out loud more for himself than for Huey. “I’m going to make as many people smile as I can. I’m going to make Szilard smile, and make Fermet smile, and make even _you_ smile, someday, just you wait.”

“Make them?” It wasn’t really a question – Huey surely needed no answer to it – but his companion phrased it as one anyway.

“ _Make_ them. You know – I haven’t told you this before, Huey, but back when we used to be mortal I actually thought at one point that maybe one lifetime wouldn’t be enough.” Elmer’s smile-that-wasn’t-a-smile wavered, and he looked upward seeking stars that were invisible in the bright blue sky. “But now that I’m immortal – maybe I’ve finally got a chance to someday figure out if I can smile genuinely or not. It might take a lifetime, or maybe thousands of them…but I might have a _chance_ now _._ ”

He inched closer to Huey, so that their arms touched together. Huey remained as carefully impassive as ever – _he’d really perfected that, hadn’t he_ – and Elmer looked him in the eye.

“That’s why I’m going to make another promise to you,” he began. “I promise that I’m not going to let myself get devoured any time soon. It’s not something I particularly wanted to happen in the first place, but I thought I should promise it anyway. There are so many people I want to see happy before then – including myself. So I’m going to stay alive for as long as I can.”

Huey lowered his gaze, and didn’t speak for several seconds. “Thank you,” he murmured, “for promising me that.”

Elmer broadened his smile and reached into his trouser pockets, finding and fishing out a one-page letter he’d penned to Esperanza the night before. “Hold on – I almost forgot I had a letter I need to send.”

_Say, demon, would you mind?_

He creased it gently in half, and let the breeze snatch it from his fingers. He and Huey watched as the wind carried the letter higher and higher, until it winked out of existence in a ripple of sunshine.  

Elmer and Huey fell into companionable silence, and he closed his eyes to the sound of waves lapping at the side of the hull. Behind him, he could hear Czes gasping in excitement over the approaching coastline, and as Huey pressed his arm against Elmer’s own, he raised his hand and brushed his lips with his fingers in contemplation. Then, he grinned as widely as he could and pretended – just for one tantalizing moment – that he was _happy_.

The moment passed. He opened his eyes and nudged Huey’s side.

“You never told Victor what _you_ plan on doing once we reach shore. What say you stick around and do some fishing with me for a little while?”

Huey laughed softly, and leant over the guardrail. “I’d like that.” He turned to face Elmer, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “I’d like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Note: "Mikal" is pronounced "Mee-kahl," and Toli is pronounced "Tow-lee" in Spanish.
> 
> You might remember Pierre and Italo as the two named alchemists who are devoured aboard the Advena Avis from the 2007 anime adaptation. They're the only non-main cast alchemists who've had names, so of course I made use of them. 
> 
> A few things: As many of you already know, Elmer's country of origin is not specified in the novels or by Narita outside of them at any point. I can only assume that Tyler Walker had John Burgmeier go with an English accent in the 2007 anime's dub because of his name. I chose to have Elmer's native language as English here because I wanted to emphasize the isolation he experiences once he's in the arms of the Church, and a language barrier seemed a good way to go about it.
> 
> We're given no indication that Elmer ever stayed at more than one church in the novels, and I'm sure Narita never meant us to think too hard over it. However, it seems to me that a convoy transporting a severely abused boy anywhere would likely take him to the nearest sanctuary available, rather than a big, well-known church (like what Esperanza might attend...aka the one in which he meets Elmer for the first time in canon) in a city further away.
> 
> Huey and Elmer's conversation was designed around two specific conversations of theirs - the one before they board the Advena Avis, and the one they have on the pier once they reach America. I can't be sure of the exact specifics of their pre-AA conversation, but in the fic I've assumed that Huey was rather barebones about the details of his second promise. 
> 
> All of the OCs in the 1700s have no connection with any of the canon characters, whereas Heather, Smith, the farmer couple, and Fritz do. Fritz is meant to be the alchemist that Ennis eventually devours.
> 
> One of the ideas I had for a segment while writing this was a 2000s-set one in which Elmer, Nile, and Denkurō accidentally get caught up in a bank robbery, and Elmer volunteers himself and co. as human meat shields for the robbers. I didn't write it because I figured it didn't exactly fit in anywhere. Maybe I'll write it as a separate one-shot someday.
> 
> Finally, here's a huge thank you to all the people on the r/fanfiction Discord Server for listening to me shriek and despair over the fic for the last two months, and for their advice - with special thanks to Elsie, Pashow, Hermit, and thanks especially to Atojiso for combing through the fic with some very useful and excellent edit commentary. I desperately needed fresh eyes to read over this monstrosity, and you more than delivered.
> 
> Oh, and AE for the conversation on melting flesh, which is a sentiment I don't normally experience but am experiencing now. I appreciate all the advice from the bottom of my heart.


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